What Do You Do When Your Boss Texts You?(WITH VIDEOS)

What Do You Do When Your Boss Texts You?

Chloe gets a foreboding text while dealing with a foreboding driver.

 

"Ms. Madison, I presume?"

"Yes." I said, stepping towards the car carefully, trying not to turn an ankle in my four-inch Brian Atwoods. "You must be the Brantley's driver?"

"I am." He didn't offer a name, just opened the Escalade's back door with a polite smile, supporting my hand until the moment when I released it to grip the door frame.  "I've already taken the Brantleys to the event. I have instructions to bring you to the house, pick up Chanel, and arrive at the party by eight."

The same instructions that Assistant Jane had given me three times already, her over-enunciated words making it clear that she assumes me to be an idiot. I nodded at the man, tucked my bag in the floor board and brought my feet in. Then he shut the door and got inside.

The SUV felt tiny with just the two of us inside. I pulled out my compact and checked my lipstick. It hadn't changed since I applied it ten minutes earlier. I glanced up front to the driver. "How was your Christmas?"

"It was quiet."
Well, that was a conversation starter. I had expected for him to politely return the question, giving me an opportunity to share the story of last night.  Cammie, Benta and I had failed in our attempt to play house. Our turkey had burned to a crisp on the outside but been pink on the inside, my soufflé fell, and Benta's try at haricots verts produced water-logged beans as limp as… well.  But once we'd snuggled on the couch with dessert, champagne and Netflix, it had ended up being one of my best Christmases ever.
I fiddled with my necklace, tried another tack. "How long have you worked for the Brantleys?"
"Three years."

Talkative guy. Any more chattering and I'd have had to put in ear plugs.
"Are they a nice couple to work for?"

His eyes moved to the review mirror, our gaze connecting. He had a very direct stare,  one that — once established – was hard to break. And his eyes… damn. A dark blue that picked up the lights from passing cars, causing a shimmer across their depths. "They're fine."

It was quiet. Three years. They're fine. Hell, I've worked for the Brantleys for six days and I could fill up a thirty-minute drive with stories. This guy was really committed to the strong, silent vibe he was rocking. Or, maybe he was actually following the lengthy confidentiality agreement that Nicole had her employees sign.
I gave up on conversation. Leaning back against the seat, I watched the city go by, lit Christmas trees out in full force, a sea of white and rainbow at every turn. This is my favorite time of the year, our city streets turned into festive art, a layer of snow hiding all of the dirt and grime. Chanel and I were celebrating New Years at an animal charity event, one where Nicole would parade Chanel around for the cocktail hour before passing her back to me. At 10 p.m., a holiday fashion show was scheduled, and Chanel would make two

appearances: once in a red gown, once in a diamond studded collar and a dusting of silver glitter. How the organization is encouraging the ethical treatment of animals by subjecting poor Chanel to this, I don't know. But then again, I'm not getting paid to think.

The car stopped outside the Brantley's home, and I waited a few long seconds, expecting the Driver Without A Name to get my door. When he stayed buckled in place, the vehicle settled into park, I sighed, opening the door myself and stepping out into the cold night air.

My phone buzzed around the time that I reached the garland-lined front door. Looking down, I saw a text from Nicole Brantley.

"HURRY. I JUST FIRED JANE. I NEED YOU ASAP."