Lily's Mistake(8)

By: Pamela Ann

I stride inside and immediately start working. I turn on the computer and place my purse in my desk drawer. Since I don’t have any office supplies, I seek out the supply room. It’s easily found because the room has a ‘Supply Room’ nameplate on the oak door.

Unknowingly, I start to whistle, but stop when I hear mewling sounds and sobs coming from somewhere in the room. I pursue the sounds to find out who they are coming from. I find a stylish, dressed to impress, black woman hunched over the copying machine, crying.

I tense. I guess she didn’t hear me?

“Excuse me—are you alright? I don’t mean to pry, but I heard you and I’m a little concerned,” I whisper at the sullen woman’s form. She immediately glances up when she hears me.

She sniffs again, trying to wipe the running mascara, but the hasty brush of her fingers makes it even worse. “Sorry. You must be the new girl. I’m Mindy.” She sniffs once again.

Is she okay? She looks so distraught. I want to hug her, though I hold myself back just in case she thinks I’m a weirdo or something.

“I’m Lily Alexander. Are you okay, Mindy? Is there anything I can get you? Water, perhaps?”

“I’m a mess. Give me a second or two and then I’ll be good as new,” she states, yet I’m not convinced. Even in her state, it’s obvious how pretty Mindy is, but I doubt her puffy eyes and nose will clear away that quickly.

I nod and smile at her. “Alright, but if you need someone to talk to, I’m here.” Mindy nods and excuses herself to the restroom.

Confused from that little scene, I mentally shrug and seek out the supplies that I came here for in the first place.

I’m in the midst of putting some pens and pencils away in my office when I hear I light knock. I look up and find Mindy.

“Hey, come on in.”

She strolls in with her tight, black slacks and fitted, engine red v-neck top. Wow, what I would give to have a nice rack like hers, I think annoyingly. Hers even look real—a commodity in Los Angeles. A lot of women here are enhanced and altered. Sad to say, but it’s the damn truth.

Mindy sits on one of the white leather seats across from my desk. “You probably must’ve thought I was some loony, finding me crying in the supply closet like that, didn’t you?” She chuckles. “I don’t blame you. I didn’t want to meet you in that state.” She looks away for a second. “I need to learn how to separate my personal life and my work. I tend to mesh them together and it can be overwhelming sometimes.”

“Don’t worry about it. I get it—we’re women. I can be emotional at times, too. You don’t have to explain yourself to me.”

Mindy flashes me a genuine, knockout smile. “Thank you. You know—I like you already. You have this aura around you; I find it very soothing and I feel like you really do mean what you say.”

“Thank you. That’s a very nice thing to say.”

Mindy gets up and is about to leave my office when I speak again. “This might sound stupid, but can you tell me what I’m supposed to be doing right now?”

“Bring a notepad and go to Drake’s office. He should direct you and tell you what he needs to be done.” She turns around and then pauses, again. “Drake Tatum is a great man to work for. A little difficult at times, but he’s fair and square. Try not to mind his fiancée, though. She’s a class-A bitch, but other than that, it should be smooth sailing. See you in a bit.” I give her a small smile and sit in my chair with a frustrated sigh.

Everyone always mentions this Shannon woman being so abhorrent. I would love to see this girlfriend of his. Or maybe I can easily just Google her and not wonder any longer.

Let me just finish going over Drake’s calendar for today then I can freely quest about his infamous girlfriend, I think wickedly.


Clearing my throat, I make sure I have my notepad and pen in hand before I knock on Drake’s office door. I push the heavy, oak door open and pause when he glances up from his laptop. For a second, his eyes flash an emotion for a split second before they become cold.

I lick my lips, trying to appear nonchalant. “I need to go over your schedule for today. I can’t, for some reason, find your old agenda anywhere.” My feet start working again and I advance to his desk and sit on one of the leather chairs, opposite him.

His eyes linger on me, tracing and caressing with cold assessment; they stay targeted on me in a quiet stare. Uncomfortable, I uncross and cross my legs and place the notepad on my lap. “Are you ready? Or do you want me to come back some other time?” I inquire lightly, trying in earnest not to melt under his heavy scrutiny.

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