Page 36 of The Naughty List

It’s been almost three weeks since Tim officially moved out of our apartment and declared that we were on a break.

I still don’t know the technical definition of what we are to each other, but he made his intentions to date other people perfectly clear. A pit forms in my stomach as an image of him and Tiffany embracing in his office flashes through my head. I’ve never actually met her or seen a picture of her, but the way he reacted when I saw her name flash across his screen one night told me everything I needed to know.

“You’re being ridiculous, Sadie. Honestly, she’s a friend—not even. She’s a coworker. She’s a lame first-year at that. Honestly, I have no idea how she managed to get into Harvard because she takes ditzy blond to a whole new level. Honestly, she’s annoying and all the guys at work think she’s kind of a slut.”

Something my mom always taught me growing up was that if a man feels the need to put another woman down to make you feel good, he’s either being dishonest about his true feelings and attraction to her, or he’s cheating on you with her. I push the thought from my head as my desk phone rings.

“Snow Communications, this is Sadie, how may I help you?”

“Oh, thank god!” I instantly recognize the shrieking voice on the other end of the line. It’s Beth, personal assistant to the CEO, Mr. Snow.

I actually went to high school with her. She was the top of the cheerleading pyramid, the leader of the popular girls, and could be a major bully at times. I was never in her line of fire; oddly, she seemed to like me. She would stick her neck out if any of the jocks got too rowdy teasing me about my oversized marching band hat that never wanted to stay above my eyeline, or the way I’d stumble down the hallway with my giant tuba. But she didn’t like me enough to invite me to any of the cool parties she had at her parent’s massive estate in Hinsdale, one of Chicago’s most affluent suburbs.

“Hey Beth, what’s going on?”

“I feel like such an idiot. Everyone I’ve called so far is already out for the holidays, so I need a huge favor from you.”

“Sure, what do you need?”

“I already left with my family for our annual ski vacation in Vail, and I forgot to have Mr. Snow sign this extremely important and time sensitive contract. It’s in the top drawer of my desk. Could you pleeeeease take it to him and have him sign it? There’s a courier coming today at three p.m. to pick it up.”

I feel panic grip my chest at the thought of engaging with Alexander Snow. Not only is the man hot as hell with his panty-melting smile, but he’s also extremely standoffish and really doesn’t like to be bothered outside of his extremely rigid schedule.

Everything he wears is perfectly tailored for his chiseled body. Expensive custom suits and shoes. His signature Rolex was given to his father by some foreign dignitary, something I read once in a business article. And his hair…god, his perfectly styled yet messy blond hair makes me want to tug at the strands while staring into his sparkling green eyes. To say he’s intimidating would be like saying the Titanic hit an ice cube.

I met him once. When I was hired two years ago. Our interaction was brief. He attended the new-hire orientation to introduce himself and give a little speech about the company and his expectations, and then he left. I see him from afar now and then. One time I even shared the elevator with him for maybe fifteen seconds. He was buried in his phone, so he didn’t notice me; but damn, I can remember how jittery I was walking back to my desk that day.

“I dunno, Beth. Sorry, I just have a pretty busy day, and I was actually planning on leaving here before three.”

“Oh, pleeeeaaaaase,” she whines in that I use this to get my way and it always works voice. “I promise, I’ll make it up to you. We’ll have a girls’ day, go get our nails done and facials and massages. My treat!”

I can picture her pouting collagen-filled lips and her long, bleached Barbie hair cascading over her slim, year-round tan shoulders.

I sigh, giving in. “Okay. Is he in his office? Will he be expecting me? Because I really don’t need to get yelled at today.”

“Oh, Sadie, you’re so dramatic.” She pops her gum. “He’s such a softie, he’s just shy.”

“Shy? A billionaire CEO who made a fifty-year-old man cry during a television interview last year?”

“That was totally out of character for him but justified. The journalist only wanted to talk about his rumored romance with Poppy Tallman, even after he’d made it clear he was there to discuss the company’s partnership with the NFL. That reporter was out of line.”

I remember it all too well. Everyone at Snow likely does. After the incident, socialite and social media queen Poppy Tallman only fueled the fires of their rumored romance when she came to his defense with her posts and live videos. Despite Mr. Snow refusing to comment on the rumors, it took the media by storm for an entire month, completely ruining what was supposed to have been a major partnership announcement with the NFL.

“So the contract is in your top drawer. Is he expecting me at a certain time?” I glance at my watch. “I can run up there now.”

“Actually, he’s at home today; but yes, he will be expecting you. I’ll call him now, and you can just grab that contract from my drawer and take it over to his penthouse.”

“His penthouse?” Okay, now I’m even more panicked. I don’t want to invade his personal space.

“You promised you’d do it, Sadie, you can’t take it back.” Her tone is petulant, and I can practically see her stomping her foot.

I groan. She’s right. I mean, I didn’t promise, but I still can’t refuse her. Not with the memory of Beth’s kindness in high school all those years ago fresh on my mind.

“Fine, I’ll do it. But make sure you call him so he knows. I’ll let you know once the courier picks them up at three. Can you have them meet me in sales instead of on the executive floor?”

“Yay! Of course, I’ll call Mr. Snow now, and then the courier. Thank you so so so so much, Sades!” she exclaims, using the weird little pet name she’s always called me. “You are saving my life. I owe you so much. Gotta go, bye!”

The call ends and I grab my purse, heading upstairs to grab the contracts before going outside to take the train over to Park Tower in the Gold Coast. Everyone knows where Mr. Snow lives, of course. It's the most elite and expensive residential building in Chicago.

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