flirted, not as far as Maisie could tell. He was more of the “get on your knees and suck me” sort. No teasing. No dancing around the inevitable outcome of their sessions. God. Ethan. It was criminal how he manipulated her. She wanted him. Needed him.
Mrs. Donahue was staring at Maisie. “Are you paying attention?”
Maisie nodded. “Yes. About the phone call… I was just checking—”
“You were flirting with your boyfriend,” Mrs. Donahue said. “You’re young, and you should enjoy life. But never on company time. You’ll take the broken piece of Mr. Lattimore’s clock for repair. Come.”
Maisie slowly got to her feet. She rolled her eyes as she followed Mrs. Donahue to her desk, where she picked up a shallow but long fabric-covered box, then down the hall and back into Mr. Lattimore’s office.
“Those need to be taken care of,” Mrs. Donahue said, glancing at the two water glasses from earlier. “You should know better by now.” She opened the bottom of the grandfather clock.
The weights and pendulum evoked droopy-balled old men, and Maisie’s entire body shook with repressed laughter. Despite her best efforts, a little snort escaped.
“I didn’t catch that,” Mrs. Donahue said, distracted.
Maisie forced herself to calm down. “How do you know which piece is broken?” She gathered the glasses and put them inside the credenza, where the night crew would remove them.
“We had this problem a few months ago and only received a temporary fix. I’ve been keeping an eye on it.” Mrs. Donahue removed the hood from the top, exposing the metallic innards, then reached inside the case and unhooked one of the weights. “That goes into the box,” she said, handing it to Maisie.
Maisie opened the box. It was lined with blue satin and had molded depressions; it was pretty clear where the weights needed to go.
Mrs. Donahue handed her the pendulum and finally the second weight. “Wait here.”
She returned a moment later with another fabric-covered box, this one twenty-four inches deep. Maisie watched as she removed a few screws on the side of the clock, then pulled away the clock’s face and movement. She carefully positioned it upright inside the box, then closed everything up tightly.
“Don’t tilt it,” she said, handing it to Maisie.
Maisie slid her fingers under the handle, then followed Mrs. Donahue back out to her desk, where the older woman wrote down an address.
“There’s only one shop Raphael trusts with the clocks, but ever since the owner’s stroke, he doesn’t make house calls, so we’ve got to go to him. Straight there, then straight back, Maisie. No dawdling.” She held out the paper, but when Maisie tried to take it, she wouldn’t let go. “You’re on thin ice.”
“I’ve been getting my work done,” Maisie said, flustered.
“Incorrect. You’ve been doing a portion of your work, and I’ve been taking up the slack.”
“That’s because the other assistants keep giving me reports to write,” Maisie said.
“Learn to say no. You’re still new, but you’re falling behind. If you don’t turn things around by the end of the week, I’ll have to find someone more capable.”
3
T he watchmaker was a fifteen-minute walk from the office, even in stilettos.
Despite Mrs. Donahue’s ominous words echoing in Maisie’s mind, the mild wind and warm sun felt tantalizingly good.
But not as good as Trent’s fingers sliding underneath her skirt. She wondered if Trent was annoyed that she’d teased him and then disappeared.
Maybe it would do her bosses good to be the ones waiting every so often.
Smiling, she threaded her way through the crowds. Snatches of conversation drifted by. The wind gusted, carrying the aroma of fresh bread, but also cigarette smoke.
She wondered about the night Ethan had saved Petra’s life. Maybe Jayne Torrabadella, one of the third-year associates, would have some extra insight at lunch. Jayne had promised to give Maisie career
Mrs. Donahue was staring at Maisie. “Are you paying attention?”
Maisie nodded. “Yes. About the phone call… I was just checking—”
“You were flirting with your boyfriend,” Mrs. Donahue said. “You’re young, and you should enjoy life. But never on company time. You’ll take the broken piece of Mr. Lattimore’s clock for repair. Come.”
Maisie slowly got to her feet. She rolled her eyes as she followed Mrs. Donahue to her desk, where she picked up a shallow but long fabric-covered box, then down the hall and back into Mr. Lattimore’s office.
“Those need to be taken care of,” Mrs. Donahue said, glancing at the two water glasses from earlier. “You should know better by now.” She opened the bottom of the grandfather clock.
The weights and pendulum evoked droopy-balled old men, and Maisie’s entire body shook with repressed laughter. Despite her best efforts, a little snort escaped.
“I didn’t catch that,” Mrs. Donahue said, distracted.
Maisie forced herself to calm down. “How do you know which piece is broken?” She gathered the glasses and put them inside the credenza, where the night crew would remove them.
“We had this problem a few months ago and only received a temporary fix. I’ve been keeping an eye on it.” Mrs. Donahue removed the hood from the top, exposing the metallic innards, then reached inside the case and unhooked one of the weights. “That goes into the box,” she said, handing it to Maisie.
Maisie opened the box. It was lined with blue satin and had molded depressions; it was pretty clear where the weights needed to go.
Mrs. Donahue handed her the pendulum and finally the second weight. “Wait here.”
She returned a moment later with another fabric-covered box, this one twenty-four inches deep. Maisie watched as she removed a few screws on the side of the clock, then pulled away the clock’s face and movement. She carefully positioned it upright inside the box, then closed everything up tightly.
“Don’t tilt it,” she said, handing it to Maisie.
Maisie slid her fingers under the handle, then followed Mrs. Donahue back out to her desk, where the older woman wrote down an address.
“There’s only one shop Raphael trusts with the clocks, but ever since the owner’s stroke, he doesn’t make house calls, so we’ve got to go to him. Straight there, then straight back, Maisie. No dawdling.” She held out the paper, but when Maisie tried to take it, she wouldn’t let go. “You’re on thin ice.”
“I’ve been getting my work done,” Maisie said, flustered.
“Incorrect. You’ve been doing a portion of your work, and I’ve been taking up the slack.”
“That’s because the other assistants keep giving me reports to write,” Maisie said.
“Learn to say no. You’re still new, but you’re falling behind. If you don’t turn things around by the end of the week, I’ll have to find someone more capable.”
3
T he watchmaker was a fifteen-minute walk from the office, even in stilettos.
Despite Mrs. Donahue’s ominous words echoing in Maisie’s mind, the mild wind and warm sun felt tantalizingly good.
But not as good as Trent’s fingers sliding underneath her skirt. She wondered if Trent was annoyed that she’d teased him and then disappeared.
Maybe it would do her bosses good to be the ones waiting every so often.
Smiling, she threaded her way through the crowds. Snatches of conversation drifted by. The wind gusted, carrying the aroma of fresh bread, but also cigarette smoke.
She wondered about the night Ethan had saved Petra’s life. Maybe Jayne Torrabadella, one of the third-year associates, would have some extra insight at lunch. Jayne had promised to give Maisie career
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