Chapter 6

Voicemail, Gloria Alvarez to Roman, 6:51 AM

“Roman. It’s your mother. You called at six in the morning to tell me about a new employee and then said it’s nothing in the voice you use when something is everything and then hung up before I could get a word in. I have been your mother for thirty-five years. I know that voice. I invented that voice—you got it from me. Call me Sunday. Eat something. I love you. Goodbye.”

***

By Monday morning, every trace of that gentle, sensual woman who had held my hand was gone. I almost didn’t recognize her when I got to the office. She was angrily pacing between the mismatched, antique desks, her skirt swishing, her braids swinging back and forth. 

As soon as she saw me, she barked, “Kaalia!” 

Had we met yesterday or had I hallucinated that? She showed no signs of recognizing me, as if I’d dreamed up our encounter. I tentatively approached her, passing Jazmine’s desk—Jazmine yanked my shoulder down and hissed, “Some white man pissed her off today, don’t get fired yet because my bet is you’ll last until early June and it’s only May“—until I finally stood before Roman. She looked even more gorgeous than yesterday. And just as real. There was no way I had dreamed meeting her. 

“Yes, um, CEO? Um, Ms. Alvarez?” 

“Just call me Roman,” she snapped. “Where are the edits for my manuscript?”

“In my office?” I didn’t know why I said it like a question. I was terrified of her right now, but also extremely attracted to her. The anger made her full lips curve. Her hands were on her round hips. And that top . . . it was so low-cut it took every ounce of my shivering, stuttering willpower to meet her eyes and not look down. 

This was it. My crush on Roman had turned me into a full-blown maniac. I was so afraid and tense a single paperclip thrown in my direction could make me fall over. Yet, against all better judgment, every bone and blood vessel and fibre of my body was screaming at me in anguish, wondering why I wasn’t pregnant with her babies yet. 

The morning only got worse from there. I finally understood why Roman had burned through so many assistant editors. She was ruthless, relentless, and practically sociopathic. Sharply, she gave me order after order, editing my editing and giving me feedback on my feedback. She combed through individual words and punctuation marks I had used to revise the manuscripts she’d tasked me with. She let nothing slide. And gave me no hint whatsoever that we had talked yesterday, that she had smiled at me for that brief moment and we had laced our fingers together. 

“Why do you keep adding commas? It’s just excessive at this point.” She ran her fingers through her hair. The frustration was tangible.

“I learned that in—” 

“School? Are you going to say in school? Don’t you have any experience in the real world, outside of the institution? Because I swear I remember that in your resume. Was I wrong to hire you?”

By the time noon rolled around, I was certain meeting her earlier had been a dream. 

During my lunch break, Iseul trailed me outside and offered me a hit of her mango vape. The stress was so bad at that point I took a long hit and then, humiliatingly, sputtered and coughed out synthetic mango fumes. 

“I hear you’re getting it really bad,” Iseul said.

“What?”

“Moya’s office is near yours. She could hear Roman talking to you. Apparently she’s being extra harsh. Moya said she’s never been this mean to her other assistant editors. Did you piss her off or something?” 

“I . . . I don’t think so. Maybe.” I sat down on the curb and sighed into my hands. “I met her yesterday. Alone. For the first time. Um, and she didn’t know who I was because I’m new and I guess she hadn’t seen pictures yet. So she thought I was a robber?” 

Iseul nodded like this was normal. “She’s pretty paranoid, but rightfully so. Can’t tell you how many stalkers she’s had. And they get super intense.” 

“Four,” I answered glumly. “She’s had four. But, anyways, I lost my temper and quit. Actually, we both lost our tempers.”

“You quit?” Iseul’s jaw hung slack, her mouth open so wide her bottom lip’s liner smudged onto her chin.

“No! I mean, yes, but then she hired me back? And we both said sorry? She said she’d take me out to lunch on Tuesday to make up for thinking I was a criminal. Can I have another hit of that, please?” 

Iseul handed me her vape wordlessly. I took another pitiful hit. If Jazmine were outside, she’d laugh at me. I stared down at the cracks in the parking lot’s asphalt and thanked the spirits Jazmine wasn’t there. Small joys.

“She offered to take you to lunch?” Iseul finally burst out. “Alone?” 

“Yes,” I began, but was interrupted almost immediately by the chime of the door opening and someone stepping outside. Probably Jazmine. So much for that small joy. “Don’t look at me like that. She hates me. She’ll probably try and have my food poisoned so she can get rid of me quietly. But you know what? I’d prefer that over getting fired.”

“Really?” said a warm, sweet, terrifying voice. “I don’t think you’d go down quietly. In fact, I think you’d probably quit first.” And . . . was that laughter? 

I turned around and stared at Roman. She stood above Iseul and I. She seemed to be burning sage. Today could not get any worse. 

I inhaled some sage. Maybe it would cleanse me of the evil spirits that seemed to be clinging to me. 

Maybe not. “Um, Alvarez—CEO—”

“Roman,” she reminded me gently. The softness in her demeanor had returned, as if she hadn’t been evil five minutes earlier. She did remember me. She had brought up the fact that I’d quit, like it was some kind of inside joke. 

“Roman,” I repeated. I forgot Iseul was there. “You’re really not going to poison me?” A poor attempt at a joke.

“No,” she said, crouching down to meet my eyes. “I’d definitely kill you more viscerally. I have a lot of pent-up rage, you know. I’d stab you through the heart, probably.” 

Why did that sound so sexy? I needed to be checked into a mental facility. “You could, if you asked nicely. Stab me in the heart, that is. You have the kind of face I’d say yes to, if you asked.” 

“What kind of face is that?” She tilted her head, her perfect dark eyes so utterly mesmerizing. Even as we spoke, it felt like we were communicating secretly, telepathically, in the spaces between words—with every breath and gesture and slight nod. 

Why was she so—so kind now? It made me want to be vulnerable, despite all better judgment and an entire morning’s worth of insults.

“The heartbreaking kind.” What I really wanted to say was, The most beautiful I’ve ever seen. 

She nodded like she understood. “I’ve heard that before.” 

That filled me with unbearable jealousy, and then unbearable anger, as I scolded myself for believing I had a right to be jealous about anything involving her personal life. 

I remembered Iseul existed—that an entire world existed outside of just me and Roman—and blinked back to reality in time to see Iseul’s baffled expression schooled back into friendly calm. Roman told us to enjoy our break and went back inside, still mysteriously burning sage. 

“You didn’t tell me about that,” Iseul growled and dug her fingers so sharply into my shoulder I squealed. “This changes everything.” 

“What? What are you talking about?” 

“The fact that you guys are a—a thing. An item.”

“We are not a thing!” 

She shushed me aggressively and put her vape in my mouth like a pacifier. “Roman never burns sage, except when she’s channeling her inner peace because she’s really stressed. Anyway, be quiet. I’m thinking. Okay, I’m not going to tell anyone, but I’m going to change my bet.” 

I spit out the vape. “You bet on me?” 

Jazmine had started that bet almost a month ago on how soon I’d be fired. I’d been certain Iseul wouldn’t bet on me like that. It seemed I had underestimated her ruthlessness.

“I’ve never seen Roman flirt so blatantly with anyone. If she’s flirting with you it must be because you’re capable.” Her eyes lit up. “She’s going to keep you. Okay, do not tell anyone else that you and Roman are a thing. I’m going to tell Layli only. We’ll both change our bets and end up winning everything. We’ll even give you a third.” Her hands shook with erratic excitement. She jumped up. “Okay, don’t tell anyone! Promise?”

“I’m not going to tell anyone because we’re not a thing.” 

“I’ve read the rom-coms and watched the movies. Don’t gaslight me.” In a flash, Iseul was gone and I was staring down at my lunch alone on the curb. 

Roman ended up calling me into her office before lunch break was over. I was trembling from head to toe, certain she was going to tell me calling her face “heartbreaking” was unprofessional and inappropriate. Instead, she waved me in warmly and made me sit on the enormous bean bag she used instead of a desk chair. 

I melted into the squishy fabric, feeling more uncomfortable than I probably would have in a stiff chair. Now that I wasn’t distracted by her criticism, I could stare at her from close by freely. Only a desk separated us. Her eyelashes were beautiful, longer at the ends than they were in the middle, probably extensions, and a subtle gold highlight dusted the inner corners of her eyes. Pink blush soaked the apples of her cheeks, unmarked except for the freckles smattering across it, crossing from one side to the other through her softly-sloped nose bridge. It was so unfair, how someone got to be that beautiful, that smart, and that good at makeup.

“Your work today has been better than I ever could have imagined.” 

I had to stop myself from replying with “Really?” But I couldn’t keep the dubious expression off my face. Astonishingly, Iseul had been right—Roman did think I was capable. My brain wandered to inappropriate places. Did that mean she was right about the fact that Roman was flirting with me? 

“No, really,” Roman continued. “I don’t think I’ve met someone as smart as you are, except maybe myself at that age.” 

I would have called that narcissistic, but Roman was just genuinely that smart. On the other hand, her calling me as smart made me start hyperventilating. I gripped the folds of the bean bag chair and tried to appear calm. 

This wasn’t new praise. I had received more than my fair share of praise from my professors and quite a lot of grant money and funding compared to my peers. Even the white ones. But coming from Roman, the compliment was worth all that, and infinitely more. 

I couldn’t respond out of fear I’d start crying and throw myself at her for a hug. 

If Roman thought it was weird I hadn’t spoken once and was instead staring at her with a glued-on smile and eyes welling up with tears, she didn’t mention it. “I know I haven’t held back on criticizing your work this morning. But that doesn’t mean I don’t think it’s brilliant. So what I have for you is an offer.” 

An offer? What offer could be better than what she’d already given me: a job paying almost a hundred dollars an hour fresh out of school and health benefits? 

“I’ve drafted a contract for a new client. Her name is Priya Banerjee. She’s an old woman, almost in her nineties, but her granddaughter sent us a translated copy of her poetry and it’s perfect for our new poetry anthology. It’s more than perfect, actually.” Roman bit her lip. I fought not to look at the glossy, shimmery crease where her teeth delicately sank into her lower lip. It was so seductive. Everything about her was so seductive. Especially the hunger. “I want it featured badly,” she continued, “and I’m going to go there to convince her, for however long it takes. Her granddaughter, Aadhya, offered us a place to stay with them.” 

Considering Roman had just returned from a three-week trip to Nepal to sign an elusive writer, this didn’t surprise me. But I still didn’t see my role in this scenario. “Go . . . where?” I asked, because she was looking at me expectantly. And, then, as it sank in: “Us?” 

“If you’ll come,” she said. “You can stay here and complete the list of manuscripts I want you to revise. But I could really use your help. And India is a beautiful place.” 

All thoughts fled my brain. “I—I don’t know,” I stammered. “I’m not experienced in—in—convincing people of things. I don’t know how to make her say yes—” 

“Relax,” Roman said gently. “You don’t have to convince her of anything. Leave that to me. What I want you to do is simple. Aadhya has provided us with a translated copy of everything Priya has written for decades, and there’s enough to fill a whole library. I need someone—I need you to analyze Priya’s work and decide what to include in the poetry anthology. And, if there’s enough, I want you to compile enough works to make a poetry book for Priya.”

“She’s that good?” I said. 

“I’ve only read a few peoms. But yes, she’s that good.” Roman smiled wryly. “Like how I can tell you’re that good after having worked only a few hours with you.”

“You could be wrong on both counts,” I argued. 

“I could,” she acknowledged, leaning across her desk. Her eyes didn’t leave mine—a gaze so intense, so heated, I was sure my brown skin was becoming a very lovely vermillion. “But I’m not.” 

“And if you are wrong?” Why was I arguing? And why did our conversation suddenly sound more like dirty talking than a business offer from a CEO to her employee?

“Then I’ll hand Bloom Press over to you,” she said. 

“You’d give this entire publishing house to me? Just like that?”

“Just like that, Kaalia.” Her lips twitched into a smirk. “But if I’m right, you’re going to have to get on your knees and apologize to me.” 

This was becoming a scene straight out of my wildest lesbian fantasies. “Okay,” I said breathlessly and maybe a little too quickly. I was already dying to get down on my knees for her.

“So you’ll come?” 

“Yes,” I said, definitely too quickly. “When do we leave?” 

“This Sunday.” 

“And how long will we be there?”

“Anywhere from three weeks to three months. That’s the longest I’ve ever done this—three months.” 

“Has it ever failed before? You convincing someone?” 

“Never,” Roman said. Somehow, she made it sound like a promise, a threat, and something she’d whisper in a dark and sexy room to torment me.

Forget three months. I wasn’t sure I would survive three weeks with her, just the two of us. 

As I got up to leave, Roman waved her hand again to stop me.

“One more thing,” she said. She looked purely wicked. “Wear something pretty for lunch tomorrow.” 

***

Are you guys excited for the vacation trope again? I know I am. Picture Roman and Kaalia translating poetry in tropical weather… easy access to beaches… easier access to bikinis…

Love,
Meera