By a Thread: A Grumpy Boss Romantic Comedy Read online

  “This is my mess. I’m going to fix it,” I told her. “You need your money for your grandkids’ Easter baskets and for your single lady cruise.”

  “Did I tell you that we’re going to a male cabaret in Cozumel?” she asked, throwing her head back and roaring with laughter.

  She had. And I still couldn’t get the vision out of my head. Mrs. Grosu and five of her closest girlfriends took a girls’ trip once a year. I was amazed they’d never been arrested yet. But there was always Cozumel.

  “I think you mentioned it,” I said, stuffing my hands into the pocket of my sweatshirt.

  “Okay. Good. Let’s go then,” she said, hooking her arm through mine and towing me toward the door.

  “Go? Where?” I asked. “I don’t have shoes or money.”

  “Get shoes. You don’t need money.”

  That was a laugh. I desperately needed money.

  “I have some work to do,” I said, trying again.

  “No. You always have work. Your calendar on the refrigerator says you work at three. It takes you forty-five minutes to get to work. Therefore, you have time to come with me.”

  I’d argued with her before and always lost.

  “What you are doing for your father is a very good, beautiful thing. We’re not going to let you go through this alone,” she said, shoving me into my winter coat.

  I stuffed my feet into boots and fumbled for my purse.

  “I don’t know what that means,” I admitted. “And who’s we?”

  “You start a new job on Monday. Mr. Mohammad and I are taking you shopping at that thrift store you like for some work-appropriate clothes.”

  I dug my heels into the ruined plywood, making sure to avoid the strip of carpet tacks. “No, you’re not.”

  Mrs. Grosu often talked about her older brothers and their wrestling prowess. Apparently they’d taught her a thing or two because I found myself outside. Mr. Mohammad, an Ethiopian immigrant who arrived in America several decades before I was born, waved from his twenty-year-old sedan.

  “Oh, no. He has the car,” I said.

  “You see how important this is?” Mrs. Grosu said.

  Very few things could convince Mr. Mohammad to actually take his car out of the garage. The car had somewhere in the neighborhood of eight hundred miles on it because its smiling, mustachioed owner loved to walk. Before he retired, he’d walked the two miles to his job as a grocery store supervisor. Since his retirement, he still walked. But now it was to church every Sunday and to bridge at the community center on Wednesdays.

  My dad had been Mr. Mohammad’s bridge partner. Together they had ruled the community center with subtle nods and indecipherable body language.

  So many things had changed in such a short time. Now, instead of looking out for my dad, his neighbors were looking out for me.

  “Don’t fight us on this. We’ve got social security checks burning holes in our pockets, and it’s Senior Citizens Day at the thrift store,” Mrs. Grosu said, stuffing me into the backseat.

  “Hello, Ally,” Mr. Mohammad sang. He was the happiest person I knew.

  “Mr. Mohammad, I can’t let you two do this.”

  “You just relax, girly,” he insisted. “We want to do this.”

  It was true. They really did. Dad’s entire neighborhood seemed to thrive on the “love thy neighbor” principle. When I sold Dad’s house, when this was all over, I’d pay them back. And I would miss them fiercely.

  “Fine,” I sighed. “But I’ll pay you back.”

  Mr. Mohammad and Mrs. Grosu shared an eye-roll in the front seat.

  “Do not make this weird, Ally,” Mr. Mohammad said and cranked up the Billy Joel cassette tape.

  6

  Ally

  Label’s offices took up the forty-second and forty-third floors of a shiny metal tower in Midtown. It was a fancy building in which fancy people worked fancy jobs.

  I was rocking a thrift store pencil skirt over bargain-buy lace leggings that made my legs itch. But I’d managed to add my own flair with the thick, colorful hair ties I’d stacked up both wrists. Functional and fashionable. Coincidentally also cheaper than a diamond tennis bracelet.

  As the elevator zoomed skyward, nerves had my heart flip-flopping in my chest. I was a pro at starting new jobs. I was great at people-ing. But stepping into that elevator with women who were six inches taller than me and thirty pounds lighter was an eye-opening experience. So was the guy pushing a cart with two dozen Chanel gift bags.

  The air smelled expensive in here like subtle brand-name perfumes, luxury creams, and lotions. Meanwhile, I smelled like bargain-brand lemon-scented shampoo.

  The gazelle next to me bobbled the tray of coffee cups she was holding. She caught it, but her phone went flying.

  I grabbed it off the floor since I was the closest one to it. It would probably take any one of the glamazons a full ten seconds to bend gracefully from their heights to reach the floor.

  “Here,” I said, handing the phone back to her.

  “Thanks,” she breathed. “I’m such a klutz, and they still make me do the coffee runs downstairs.”

  She was closing in on six-feet in her suede ruby heels. Her heritage looked like it was somewhere in the Native American meets Japanese range. In any bar in the city, she’d be considered stunning. Here, she was a coffee getter. I wondered if I was about to learn that my new job involved scrubbing toilets.

  I didn’t care. I’d still take it.

  Besides, clearly none of these people ate or drank. The bathrooms were probably unused and spotless.

  “You’re a model who does coffee runs?” I asked.

  She looked at me, blinked, and then laughed. Until she bobbled the tray again.

  As a safety precaution, I took it from her.

  “That’s adorable,” she said, grinning at me. “I work in the admin pool for Label.”

  “But you look like… that,” I said, waving my free hand in the direction of her face. “Does Label have a surplus of cover model-worthy women so they just redistribute them to other departments?”

  “I’m a hella fast typer, and organization is my religion. And if someone put me in front of a camera, I’d fall on my face. Plus, I can’t smile on command.” She held up her company ID. In the grainy photo, she looked as if she were retracting her head into an invisible turtle shell. “Do you work in the building?” she asked.

  “I’m about to. First day.”

  “Cool. What company?”

  “Label,” I said.

  “Coworkers,” she chirped. “I’m Gola, by the way. What department?”

  “I’m Ally, and I’m not sure. Dalessandra just told me to show up and ask for her.”

  Gola blinked. “Dalessandra Russo?” She said the name with equal parts awe and fear.

  “Yeah.”

  “I have so many questions,” she confessed.

  “That makes two of us.”

  The elevator dinged, and the doors opened on the forty-third floor. We both got out. “Here, I’ll take you to the front desk,” she offered, taking back the tray of coffees.

  “Thanks. That’s really nice of you.”

  I opened one of the glass doors for Gola.

  “First lesson, we’re not all models, and we’re not all super mean. But some of us are both,” Gola said, leading the way to a horseshoe-shaped counter of glowing white quartz. The woman standing behind it was an ivory-skinned redhead in a chic, plaid sheath dress.

  I felt like I’d shown up to the prom in pajama pants.

  “Ruth, this is Ally. She’s here to see Dalessandra about a job,” Gola said with an eyebrow wiggle.

  “What kind of job?” Redheaded Ruth asked, cupping her chin in a dainty hand.

  “That’s the best part. She doesn’t even know!”

  “Pretty sure it’s not a cover model gig,” I joked. “She gave me this card and told me to ask for her.” I fished Dalessandra’s business card out of my coat pocket and handed it over. />
  “This is exciting!” Ruth insisted. “This is the second new random hire today.” She pointed to a small waiting area. Low, white leather chairs looked more fashion-forward than comfortable. Gold planters held glossy green ferns in front of windows that framed the gloomy Midtown skyline.

  Bus stop guy was sitting gingerly on one of the artsy-fartsy chairs. His leg was jiggling to a nervous beat. He’d trimmed his hair and beard and was wearing an orange sweater that stretched tight over his belly, making it look a little like a pumpkin.

  He looked so happy I was actually scared for him.

  “Hey, bus stop buddy!” He waved at me.

  “Hey,” I waved back and sent every good vibe I could muster his way. Mean people ate sweethearts like him for breakfast.

  “You two know each other?” Gola asked. “Even more intriguing.”

  I turned back to the women. “So what you’re saying is this doesn’t happen often?” I hadn’t been sure if Dalessandra made a habit out of playing employment fairy to strangers.

  “Never,” Ruth said. “Maybe this is some kind of mid-life crisis.”

  “The woman is sixty-nine,” Gola reminded her.

  “If anyone can live to 140-ish and still be fabulous, it’s Dalessandra,” Ruth insisted.

  “I gotta go,” Gola said, juggling the coffees. “But maybe we can do lunch today? You can give me all the deets on how you met Dalessandra.”

  “There aren’t many details. Her dinner date got me fired.”

  Gola and Ruth exchanged another look.

  “Dinner date?” Ruth whispered gleefully.

  “My extension is on the company list. I’m the only Gola.”

  “Call me too,” Ruth said. “I need to know about the dinner date!”

  Lunch buddies. Okay. This wasn’t so bad.

  “Sounds good.”

  Gola backed through a second set of glass doors, and I breathed a sigh of relief when the coffee survived.

  “Let me just call back to Dalessandra’s office to let them know you’re here,” Ruth said, picking up the phone.

  I watched a grim-looking woman in a dove gray suit walk up to my bus stop buddy. He rose and beamed at her. She frowned at him.

  “Follow me,” I heard her say without enthusiasm.

  My buddy gave me a thumbs-up with one hand and clutched his brown bag lunch to his chest with the other.

  “Please let the mail room be friendly,” I whispered.

  “Ally? Dalessandra is ready for you,” Ruth said, hanging up the phone. “You’re just going to go through those doors and follow the hallway all the way around. It’s the last office on the left, and you’ll see two terrified assistants sitting out front.”

  Oh, goodie.

  “Thanks, Ruth.”

  “Good luck! I’ll see you at lunch.”

  If I survived that long.

  * * *

  I found the office—and the two assistants, only one of whom looked terrified—without needing to ask for directions. Which was good because everyone I passed in the hallway looked like they were running off to war. There was an urgency that permeated the entire floor. People seemed on edge.

  Or I was overanalyzing everything, and this was a typical office environment. Label was a big business, and that meant a lot of money, power, and influence. Also, probably a high instance of stomach ulcers.

  “Hi. I’m Ally,” I said, startling the closest assistant into nearly falling out of his chair. He caught himself but sent a pen cup flying.

  He clutched at his chest. “Holy macaroni.”

  “Oh, for Pete’s sake, Johan,” the second assistant complained. “You knew the front desk was sending someone back here.” She stood while the Jumpy McJumperson scrambled to pick up his pens.

  “I’m Gina,” she said. “You can come with me.”

  She led the way into the glass-walled inner sanctum behind her.

  Dalessandra Russo stood behind a sleek worktable with bowed metal legs in a blue so deep it was almost black. The walls were papered in some exquisite fern and leaf pattern in soft creams and greens. Silver framed photos of the woman in question with celebrities and other important-looking people were hung in a pattern too pleasing to the eye to be accidental.

  She and a thin, bespectacled man were studying something on her desk.

  Dalessandra looked up over delicate reading glasses. Her dress was an ivory and sterling knit wrap dress with long sleeves that played off her gray hair. Her necklace was what someone more educated in fashion would probably call a statement piece, a thick gold bar with tiny gemstones sprinkled over it.

  If I wore something like that, I’d chip a tooth hitting myself in the face the first time I bent over.

  “Ally. So happy you could join us today,” she said.

  “I’m happy to be here,” I said warily.

  I was still waiting for the “I’ve changed my mind” conversation.

  “Ally—what is your last name?” she asked.

  That got the attention of the man beside her. He looked up, puzzled.

  “Morales,” I said.

  “Ally Morales, meet our production manager, Linus Feldman.”

  Linus gave me the once-over, and I knew he was wondering what the chick in the thrift store skirt was doing in Dalessandra Russo’s office.

  “Hi,” I said.

  Linus was short, slight, black, and—from the heights his cute, furry eyebrows climbed—a teensy bit on the judgmental side.

  I couldn’t fault him. I had no idea what I was doing here either.

  “Hello.” He drew out the word like he was waiting for an explanation.

  “Ally is joining our admin pool,” Dalessandra said.

  Whew. Okay. There really was a job after all.

  Linus looked relieved by that explanation too.

  “Best of luck to you,” he said, briskly stacking the papers. “I’ll get these over to the editorial team.”

  “Thank you, Linus. Please close the door on your way out,” Dalessandra said, sinking into the chair behind her desk.

  She gestured at one of the ivory armchairs opposite her.

  Linus’s eyebrows were nearing his hairline again when he did as he was told. The look he shot me as he closed the glass doors was more “beware” than “good luck.”

  I sat, gluing my knees together. It had been a while since I’d donned a skirt. I felt like I was mid-crash course relearning how to sit like an adult.

  “So, Ally,” Dalessandra said, interlacing her fingers. “Welcome to Label.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “Why am I here?”

  She didn’t laugh, but her smile was warm.

  “That is why,” she said, pointing at me.

  My hair? My charming confusion? Maybe I reminded her of a long-lost best friend from summer camp?

  “I’m afraid you’ll have to be more specific.”

  She did laugh then, and I could hear the assistants’ chairs outside spinning in our direction.

  “I’m hiring you for our admin pool. You’ll have new administrative tasks every day. You might help with research or fact-checking. You might be called upon to take notes in meetings or run scheduling on a specific project. You could liaise with a designer’s team to help coordinate photo shoots. You may fill in for personal assistants or you may be asked to organize catering, pick-up coffee, et cetera.”

  “Okay.” That sounded reasonably doable.

  “But.” She let the word hang in the air between us.

  I waited for the very luxurious stiletto that was about to impale me from above.

  “I’m interested to know what you noticed about our offices so far,” she said.

  “You mean in the three minutes I’ve been here?”

  “Yes.”

  Great. There was already a test. I knew there was an answer she was looking for. I just didn’t know what it was.

  “Everyone seems…” I trailed off, not sure how honest I should be.

  “Say it,” sh
e said.

  “Terrified. Like deer in headlights.”

  She sighed and tapped her pen on her desk. “We recently went through a… difficult transition.”

  “Mmm,” I said, not ready to admit that I’d internet stalked her and her company.

  “In the transition, we removed, lost, and replaced several key employees. The ones we removed were no longer the right… fit,” she decided, “for our values. They had become liabilities of sorts. Unfortunately, we also lost several valuable team members.”

  There was a whole hell of a lot that she was dancing around about behind the public relations vocabulary.

  “My husband took advantage of my generosity and abused his power here. I was aware of some of his… flaws. But I was not aware of just how inappropriate he’d become.” Her tone was steely and anger all but crackled off her. I hoped she got the guy’s balls in the divorce.

  I stayed silent and forcibly choked down the kajillion questions I had.

  “I was so focused on growing a brand, transitioning into digital-first, and enjoying the perks of being a powerful woman in an exciting industry that I didn’t look closely within my own family, my own company. Maybe I didn’t want to.”

  “But it’s over now,” I guessed.

  She nodded. “Years too late. So much damage could have been avoided. But the past is in the past. It has no bearing on the present and future. I brought my son on to take his father’s place and tasked him—perhaps unfairly—with cleaning up his father’s mess. As you saw last week, the strain is getting to him.”

  I was busy wondering exactly what Dalessandra wasn’t saying when that last bit of information landed.

  Oh, shit.

  “Charming is your son?”

  She looked bewildered. “Who did you think he was?”

  “I thought he was your date. I told him you could do better than him,” I said.

  Dalessandra laughed again.

  Again, I heard the swivel of chairs from the other side of the glass.

  “Dominic is my son.”

  Maybe I could empathize just a tiny bit with the man being called in to clean up a family mess. But still, I wasn’t an asshole about my situation.

  “So, why, on my first day as an admin, am I in your office?” I asked. I felt like I was missing a few very large, important puzzle pieces.