Page 8 of I've Got Your Number

The kid looked up at me as the elevator dinged and the doors slid open. His eyes widened. “You’re Callan Wilder!”

Honest to God, getting recognized never got old, despite the hungry, hungry press corps and their evil ways. I smiled. “Yep. What department are you in?” I held the door open with my left hand as I started to exit.

“Er…I’m an intern in Contracts.”

I looked back at his shoes, gauging his shoe size. Probably at least an eleven. “Well, good luck”—I scanned his badge—“Barry Bailey.”

I let the doors slide shut, but not before a huge grin lit the kid’s face. It never hurt to use a person’s name while speaking to them. I’d learned that after my first big hit, while doing press and interviews. Asher had insisted that I practice by calling our waiters by name in the restaurants he took me to—his idea of seeing and being seen.

The concept hadn’t been new to me. My dad had been doing it for years. And he always got the best service. He also used to tease me that leaving a generous tip was important. Not everyone made a bazillion dollars. My dad had the best advice and, among many other things, I’d learned generosity from him.

I paused by the seating group next to the elevator, and sent a text to Asher’s second assistant, asking her to pick up a pair of my favorite Ariat boots from the store across from Asher’s office and have them delivered to Barry as soon as possible. That would brighten the kid’s soggy day. I did this kind of thing often, not because I wanted to show off, but because I liked doing good deeds. I loved making peoples’ days with random acts of kindness. But that was a side of me the paparazzi never mentioned. Only my romantic exploits seemed to hold any interest for them.

That done, and feeling like a million buck thanks to my good deed, I sauntered casually toward Carrie’s office.

“Morning,” I called out to the assistant who guarded the door to the inner sanctum.

Melanie smiled brightly at me. “Hey, Callan. They’re waiting for you. Go right in.” She swept her right hand toward the entrance while twirling a hank of her mahogany-colored hair around her left forefinger. “Do you need a coffee or soda pop?

“No ma’am, but thanks for asking.” I nodded and then entered the office.

A cluster of people had gathered around a woman seated at the oval conference table that dominated Carrie’s office.

Carrie looked up as I arrived and hit me with a tense smile. “Callan. We’re almost ready.”

I nodded and scanned the room. “Is Asher coming?”

“Right behind you,” he said from the office doorway.

I side-stepped a bit to let him enter. An unfamiliar woman tagged along with him. I nodded at her, twisting the brim of my hat in my hand.

“This is Sheila. My new assistant,” Asher told me. “She joined us last month, covering while Maureen is on maternity leave.”

I shook her hand. “Welcome to the team.”

Her cheeks turned a bright pink as she ducked her head, murmuring, “Oh, my gosh.”

Asher cleared his throat and rubbed his hands together. “Let’s get the show on the road. Cal, have you met everyone?”

I shook my head and followed him to the table.

“Maybe the cable is in the wrong port?” Carrie suggested as she moved to one side to look at the laptop on the table.

“The cable is right where it needs to be,” argued the lanky dude wearing Chucks and skinny jeans and a paisley short-sleeve button-down shirt that was buttoned all the way up to his neck. He’d rolled the sleeves up, like he wanted to show off his biceps. I laughed and coughed quickly to hide my humor. The guy looked every bit the hipster IT professional.

Why anyone would want to wear pants so tight they’d cut off circulation was beyond me. Give me loose jeans and an untucked flannel, maybe a thermal T-shirt during the cold season, any day.

“Um, is the monitor on?” asked the redhead seated in front of the laptop, pointing to the oversize screen mounted on the wall. Must be the new artist Carrie had hired. I hadn’t met her yet.

“Aw, shit.” The guy from IT snatched a different remote from a pile in the middle of the table then aimed it at the screen. “It pays to be smarter than the technology.”

That was kind of funny coming from a man who was actually paid to be smarter than a computer.

“Computers don’t run us; we run the computers,” Carrie quipped. “Isn’t that a line fromTerminator?”

IT Man squawked, “Jesus, Carrie, you are such a nerd.”

I coughed again and slapped my hat against my thigh. The computer tech calling chic, stylish, no-nonsense Carrie a nerd was like something straight out ofThe Office. My dad had loved that show. I never understood why, but this right here was a bit of a glimmer about his infatuation with the program.

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