Rapture and Capture: Three Tales of Irresistible Modern Goddesses by Thomas Lavalle

Author:Thomas Lavalle [Lavalle, Thomas]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Amazon: B01CRMR79A
Publisher: Juno Unlimited
Published: 2016-03-09T08:00:00+00:00

THE END

THE OFFICE MANAGER

THE OFFICE MANAGER

“So you enjoy working for me, Peter?”

“Very much, Ms. Knudson.” It was my first closed-door interview with our new office manager, a disturbingly attractive, French-braided blonde, perhaps five years older than my twenty-six. Her tightly tailored gray suit, with frilly pink silk blouse, did more to delineate than conceal her abundant figure. To my inflamed imagination, Elsa Knudson’s bounteous curves belonged on the figurehead of a sailing ship, or maybe in a Vegas topless revue. And her regal face, with ice-blue eyes under arched, sable brows, exuded a Viking-princess hauteur that turned me to instant pudding.

“Aren’t you a bit premature, Peter?” Ms. Knudson’s voice was a husky contralto, her delivery melodious. “I’ve been in charge here scarcely two weeks. How can you possibly judge my accounting methodology or office management?”

“You’re right, of course, Ms. Knudson. It’s only that I—I admire you.” It was a foolish thing to say, I realized at once. Fortunately for me, the door was closed. My three female coworkers occupied cubicles just outside, and all had keen ears.

“Admire me? Professionally? Or is there something else about me that you admire?”

“Perhaps I’ve said too much already, Ms. Knudson.”

“Perhaps you have, Peter.” She chuckled. “But don’t worry. Last time I checked, gratuitous admiration was insufficient cause to file a complaint of sexual harassment. Besides, I find you refreshingly transparent. But you are certainly entitled to the privacy of your thoughts. So long as you keep them private and your behavior circumspect. Do we understand each other?”

“Absolutely, Ms. Knudson. I swear it won’t happen again.”

“Good, Peter. But I’m keeping you from your receivables, aren’t I? That will be all for now.”

Only it wasn’t. As I rose to leave, Ms. Knudson detained me, reached into her handbag, scribbled something, then handed me a folded square of paper—all without comment.

When I opened the paper back in my cubicle, her CPA card tumbled out. The listed address wasn’t our office. The paper unfolded into a laser-printed shopping list. At the top were grocery items—salad stuff and vegetables, pasta and tomato sauce. But my eye traveled down to “1 bottle Mumm’s champagne,” above which was added in pen, “chilled.” Then lower yet to some feminine toiletries, including pantyhose and tampons. Beneath the last item was hand-printed: “7 p.m.”

Dizziness swept me. Taken separately, the card and the list appeared entirely innocent. But with the list delivered into my hand by Ms. Knudson, I could only infer that I was being invited, or instructed, to purchase all the items and deliver them to her address at 7 p.m. And, of course, she had prepared this list before summoning me to the closed-door meeting, apparently pretty confident that I would show up. The question was, would I?

Of course I would. I thought of nothing else the rest of that interminable afternoon. Especially whenever Ms. Knudson strolled past my cubicle, pointedly ignoring me as she chatted with one or another of the women with whom I shared bookkeeping tasks.

At five-thirty, I was the first one out of the office.

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