Elevator Pitch

The hotel bar in Denver smelled like carpet cleaner and desperation, and I was on my third gin and tonic when my boss sat down next to me.

"You're drinking alone," Marcus said.

"Observant. That's why they pay you the big bucks."

He didn't laugh. He never did, not really, just that thing where the corner of his mouth twitched like he was suppressing a smile out of professional obligation. Marcus Cole. Forty-two years old, six feet of tailored restraint, and the kind of jawline that made the junior associates in our office forget how to form complete sentences. He was wearing a navy suit that probably cost more than my rent, and he looked at me the way he always did, like I was a puzzle he'd been handed without the box.

"I'm not drinking alone," I added. "You're here now. So technically it's a party."

"It's eleven o'clock on a Tuesday."

"Exactly. Parties have to start sometime."

The bartender drifted over. Marcus ordered a scotch, neat, because of course he did. No ice, no water, no concession to the fact that we'd been in meetings since eight that morning and my brain felt like someone had put it through a blender. He had this way of existing in the world like nothing touched him. Not the flight delay that made us miss the client dinner, not the presentation that got moved to tomorrow morning at the last minute, not the fact that we were stuck in Denver for another night when I'd packed for exactly one.

I'd been working for Marcus for fourteen months. Executive assistant, which was a fancy way of saying I organized his life and pretended not to notice when he forgot to eat. He was brilliant in the way that made other people feel stupid, which was most of the time, and he had this habit of looking at me during meetings like he was waiting for something. I never knew what. I never asked.

"You should eat something," he said.

"I ate."

"A bag of pretzels from the minibar doesn't count."

"Since when?"

"Since always."

I took a long sip of my drink and watched him in the mirror behind the bar. The low light caught the silver at his temples, the kind of silver that looked intentional. He had his sleeves rolled up, which was the closest thing to casual I'd ever seen him. Forearms like a man who actually used the gym membership he paid for. I looked away before he caught me looking.

"The presentation's fine," I said. "You've run through it six times. It's going to be fine."

"That's not what I'm thinking about."

"What are you thinking about?"

He didn't answer. Just swirled his scotch and stared at the bottles lined up behind the bar like they held the secrets to the universe. This was classic Marcus. Ask a question, get a non-answer, spend the next hour wondering what he actually meant. I'd learned to stop pushing. Mostly.

"You know what I think?" I said.

"I'm sure you'll tell me."

"I think you're nervous because this is the biggest account we've pitched all year and you're afraid that if it doesn't land, the partners are going to start wondering if you've lost your edge."

He turned to look at me then. Really look. His eyes were dark and steady and I felt it somewhere low in my stomach, that feeling I'd been ignoring for months.

"And what edge would that be?"

"The one you sharpen every morning before you come into the office. The one you use to intimidate interns and make clients feel like they're getting the deal of a lifetime. That edge."

"You think I intimidate interns?"

"I think you enjoy it."

The corner of his mouth twitched again. "Maybe a little."

"There it is. A confession. I should write this down."

"Don't."

"Too late. It's going in the memoir."

He laughed then. A real one, low and rough, and it did something to my chest that I didn't want to examine. I finished my drink and signaled the bartender for another. Marcus raised an eyebrow.

"That's your fourth."

"Are you counting?"

"Someone has to."

"I'm a grown woman, Marcus. I can handle my liquor."

"I know you can. I've seen you at the holiday party."

"The holiday party was a special circumstance."

"The holiday party was you doing tequila shots with the IT department and then telling the CFO that his tie looked like a crime scene."

I grinned. "It did look like a crime scene. That's not my fault. I was being helpful."

"You were being drunk."

"Helpfully drunk."

He shook his head, but he was smiling. That rare, unguarded smile that made him look younger, almost approachable. I wondered how many people got to see it. Probably not many. Probably just me and the woman at the coffee shop who knew his order before he asked.

The bartender set my drink down. I wrapped my fingers around the cold glass and tried to think of something else to say, something that wouldn't sound like flirting. Because this wasn't flirting. This was two coworkers having drinks in a hotel bar. This was normal. This was fine.

"You know," I said, "for someone who's supposedly worried about tomorrow, you're not doing a lot of preparing."

"I've prepared enough."

"There's no such thing as enough."

"There is when you're overthinking it. At some point you have to trust that you've done the work."

"That sounds suspiciously like wisdom."

"It's just experience."

"Same thing."

He took a sip of his scotch and I watched his throat move, the way his collar sat against his neck. I thought about the fourteen months I'd spent in his orbit, learning the rhythm of his moods, the way he tapped his pen when he was impatient, the way he said my name when he was annoyed. Chloe. Two syllables, flat, like he was already tired of whatever I was about to do. But sometimes, late at night, when we were the last two in the office and the lights hummed overhead, he'd say it differently. Softer. Like it meant something.

I never knew what to do with those moments. So I did what I always did. I made a joke.

"Hey," I said. "If we bomb tomorrow, do you think they'll fire us together or separately?"

"Together. You're my assistant. You go where I go."

"That's either comforting or terrifying."

"Which one?"

"Depends on the severance package."

He laughed again, and I felt it in my ribs. This was dangerous. This whole night was dangerous, the dim lighting and the proximity and the way the gin was making everything feel a little softer around the edges. I should go to bed. I should finish my drink and stand up and walk to the elevator and not look back. That was the smart thing. The professional thing.

I didn't move.

"Can I ask you something?" I said.

"You're going to anyway."

"Why did you hire me?"

He paused, glass halfway to his mouth. "What do you mean?"

"I mean, I showed up to that interview twenty minutes late because my car broke down, I spilled coffee on your desk, and I told you that your last assistant probably quit because you're impossible to please."

"You did say that."

"And you hired me anyway."

He set his glass down and turned on his stool to face me fully. The bar was nearly empty now, just us and the bartender and a couple in the corner who were too busy with each other to notice anything else. Marcus looked at me for a long moment, and I felt it, the weight of his attention, the way it pressed against my skin.

"I hired you," he said, "because you were the only person who didn't try to impress me."

"That's a terrible reason."

"Is it?"

"Yes. You should hire people who impress you."

"I don't need to be impressed. I need someone who tells me the truth."

"And I do that?"

"You spilled coffee on my desk and then told me I was impossible. No one else has ever done that."

"Maybe they were smarter than me."

"Maybe."

He held my gaze and I forgot how to breathe for a second. The air between us felt charged, electric, like the moment before a storm. I knew I should look away. I knew I should say something funny and break the tension and retreat to my room and pretend this never happened.

Instead, I said, "You're not impossible, you know. You're just particular."

"Particular."

"It's a nicer word."

"Than what?"

"Than difficult. Than demanding. Than the things people say about you when you're not in the room."

He was quiet for a moment. Then he said, "What do you say about me when I'm not in the room?"

I thought about it. The truth was I didn't say much. I defended him, mostly, when the other assistants complained. I told them he was fair, that he worked harder than anyone, that he wasn't mean, just exacting. I never told them about the way he looked at me sometimes. I never told anyone that.

"I say you're the best boss I've ever had," I said. "And that you should probably eat more vegetables."

He smiled. That rare, unguarded thing again. "You're deflecting."

"I'm always deflecting. It's part of my charm."

"Is that what it is?"

"That's what I'm told."

He finished his scotch and set the glass down with a soft click. Then he stood, and I felt the loss of his proximity like a physical thing.

"We have an early morning," he said. "You should get some sleep."

"I'm not tired."

"You're lying."

"I'm always lying. It's part of my charm."

He looked down at me, and there was something in his expression I couldn't read. Something that made my pulse jump.

"Goodnight, Chloe."

"Goodnight, Marcus."

He walked toward the elevator and I watched him go, the straight line of his back, the way he didn't look over his shoulder. I sat there for a long time after he left, nursing the last of my drink, thinking about all the things I should have said and all the things I was glad I hadn't.

The bartender started stacking chairs. I paid the tab and stood up, and the room tilted slightly before it settled. Four drinks. Maybe five. I'd lost count somewhere around the part where Marcus said my name like it mattered.

I pressed the button for the elevator and waited, listening to the hum of the building, the distant sound of traffic on the street below. When the doors opened, I stepped inside and looked at myself in the mirrored walls. Messy bob, smudged eyeliner, cheeks flushed from the gin. I looked like trouble.

Good thing I was good at it.