P.S. You’re Intolerable (The Harder They Fall)

THE OLD MAN IN front of me had tears in his eyes.

It made me sick.

“You’re a bastard, you know that? An opportunistic bastard.” He swiped at his eyes with the cuff of his shirt. “Does it feel good to profit off my life’s work? Does it?”

I blinked at him, unimpressed by the show taking place in the lobby of LD’s newest acquisition and third-tallest skyscraper in Denver.

Donald Rockford was bad at business, and he was looking for someone to blame when he should have been looking at his own reflection.

It wasn’t my fault he’d ”bull in a china shopped” his way into the Denver market without seemingly doing any research.

Nor was I the one who’d advised him to contract with an overseas steel company currently under investigation for the quality of the product. This investigation was public record. Anyone worth their salt would have looked into it. But not Donald, who had been blustering his way through life for seventy years.

I would never have told him to take out a balloon loan he had no hope of repaying on time due to shoddy steel, hiring the wrong people, and vastly underestimating construction time. I most assuredly would not have advised him to use his own home and most of his other assets as a completion guarantee.

“There’s nothing personal happening here, Donald.” I tucked my hands in my pockets. Finished with this unwanted conversation. “As of noon yesterday, you no longer have any reason to be in this building. You’ll vacate the premises immediately, or I’ll notify my security you’re trespassing. Your choice.”

Tears flowed down his cheeks like Niagara Falls. It was the most embarrassing display of emotion I’d ever witnessed, especially considering he’d brought this on himself.

He should have known better.

“You’re going to get yours one day, Levy.” He ripped the handkerchief from his breast pocket and swiped at his face angrily. “You’ll lose something you poured your life into and no one will give a damn about you.”

“That’s the difference between you and me, Donald. If I choose to pour my life into something, I handle it with care.” I took out my phone. Scrolling through my emails. “You can leave now.”

He uttered a string of curse words at me then swung to the left. “You must be proud to work for a guy like this.”

I looked up sharply, displeased to find Donald’s attention on Catherine, who’d been silent at my side throughout the entire confrontation.

She offered him a soft smile. “Can I call a car for you, Mr. Rockford?”

His mouth fell open then slammed shut. She’d stumped him with her politeness, and I was quietly amused. Catherine had a way of handling the men I met with on a daily basis. Her manners never failed her, but she had a cutting edge beneath her soft outer layer.

“No, you can’t call a car for me, young lady.”

“Oh, that’s too bad.” She gestured politely to the door. “If there’s anything else I can do to make your exit easier…”

His nostrils flared, and his eyes fell on her belly. “You really want to bring a kid into the world working for a man like this? What kind of mother are you—?”

That was enough.

I jerked him back by the collar of his sports jacket before he could complete his filthy question and marched him toward the door. He resisted, but the old guy wasn’t much more than bones and paunch beneath his tailored suit, so the little fight he put up was laughable.

Once he was on the street and my security team was alerted to keep him there, I rejoined Catherine in the lobby. Her lips were rolled over her teeth, eyes on her feet.

“Do you have anything to say, Catherine?”

She shook her head. “No. Nothing at all, Elliot.”

She held her notebook against her chest, her gaze averted. On anyone else, I might have taken her response at face value and believed she was interested in the uninspired architecture of our new building. But not Catherine.

She’d been holding herself back from day one.

If I hadn’t been so impressed by the ingenuity she’d shown in making an entirely new outfit from the lost and found box—a discarded cardigan, athletic leggings, an oversized blazer, and a tie as a belt—I wouldn’t have hired her.

Not because her résumé wasn’t up to snuff. It had been fine. And it wasn’t because her answers to my questions had been anything less than passable.

It was my job to understand what was beneath the surface of situations—and that extended to people. With Catherine, something broiled deep down, but she kept it buried. There were words on the tip of her tongue she routinely bit off and a flicker of opinion on her otherwise placid features she smoothed in the blink of an eye. I didn’t trust what I didn’t understand and therefore couldn’t predict.

Fortunately for her—and me, as it had turned out—Catherine Warner fit all my other criteria and had been a model employee.

We strolled to the elevator, and I hit the button for the penthouse. We were meeting with a designer to approve his proposal for converting the top ten floors into apartments. We had to strike hard and fast. Completing construction and moving in tenants ensured we didn’t end up in the same position as Donald.

Not that I would. I had too many fail-safes to ever find myself so deep in the red I could never get out.

“Did you feel sorry for him?” I asked, swiveling to face my silent assistant.

Her lips parted. Her answer was there, waiting to be unleashed. As always, she pressed them together and swallowed down what she truly wanted to say.

“It was difficult not to. He’s old. He doesn’t have time to rebuild an empire.” She lifted one shoulder. “It’s understandable that he was angry at you. You bought his debt for a fraction of the money he lost.”

I shook my head at her shortsightedness. “Donald Rockford had stripped away the livelihoods of more people than you can imagine. There are entire cities of skilled laborers who wouldn’t set foot on one of his projects or piss on him if he was on fire. I know because these people have worked for me, and unlike Donald, I pay them for the jobs they complete.”

She tucked an errant strand of her thick, auburn hair behind her ear, but it popped back out as soon as she withdrew her hand. A rebellion.

Catherine kept her hair tidy and straight, mostly in low ponytails, but these small tendrils betrayed her. They curled toward her face, almost ringlets. I often wondered if we were to get stuck outside in the rain, would she end up with a massive riot haloing her face?

“I don’t doubt he’s unscrupulous, but nothing is ever black and white,” she said. “It’s still sad to see a man who’s fallen as far as he has.”

I stuffed my hand in my pocket so she wouldn’t see my fingers curl into my palm with frustration.

“You shouldn’t offer sympathy to those who don’t deserve it, Catherine. That isn’t a trait that will take you far in life.”

Donald Rockford and his ilk would use a woman like Catherine as a stepping-stone if they thought it would get them ahead. There wouldn’t be sympathy when she was flattened in the process. They wouldn’t even notice her beneath them.

Her teeth dug into her bottom lip, and I couldn’t help wondering what she wanted to say to me.

“I’ll take note of that, Elliot.”

That definitely hadn’t been how she’d wanted to reply.

“In black ink,” I intoned.

She huffed a short laugh. “Is there any other kind?”

My mouth tilted in amusement. “Not in my world.”

Her bright eyes met mine as she grinned. No one knew better than Catherine how much I loathed blue ink.

My levity quickly faded, and my urge for Catherine to understand why I felt no pity for Donald Rockford propelled me to speak.

“Donald Rockford attempted to buy steel from a manufacturer under investigation after a high-rise constructed with their product collapsed in Shanghai. Over two-hundred people died. Everyone, including him, knew the steel was graded as poor quality and prone to embrittlement. And he went ahead with the deal anyway. It was US Customs that stopped the steel from being imported. If it were up to Donald, he’d take chances with the lives of his future tenants to save a few dollars.”

A few million dollars, to be precise.

Her pale throat bobbed as she swallowed. “Well, I suppose we should thank the Customs agent who prevented that from happening.”

“I suppose we should.”

The elevator doors slid open, and Catherine rushed off, her ponytail swishing against her back. I followed, pushing Donald Rockford from my mind. He’d been the architect of his own demise, leaving him with nothing.

And that was exactly what I felt about his condition.

Nothing.

We were in the back of my limo, being driven to the office. Traffic crawled, taking several minutes to travel a handful of feet. Fortunately, I had my phone and laptop. Catherine was tapping away on her tablet, making efficient use of her time.

Details were important to me. If I missed one number, it could be catastrophic. That was why I didn’t miss numbers. I studied details.

Yet, I’d missed a glaring one.

Catherine was pregnant.

Now that I’d been made aware of it by my smug friends, Weston and Luca, I questioned how I could have missed it. Seated across from me, her round stomach stretched her thin, black sweater to within an inch of its life.

I didn’t like being surprised almost as much as I hated blue ink.

She lifted her eyes from her tablet, catching me studying her. Her head cocked, and she rubbed her lips together. I glanced down at the swell of her belly, and she exhaled.

“Are you ready to have this conversation?” I asked.

“Not really.” Slowly, she lowered her tablet to the seat beside her. “An email would probably be more efficient.”

“We seem to be in the car for the long haul. I’d prefer to make use of our time.” I tapped the window, drawing her attention to the bumper-to-bumper traffic. “Were you planning on giving birth at your desk?”

Her mouth twitched. “That would have been quite an announcement. No, that was never in the cards.”

“Are you coming back after your leave?”

She jolted like I’d shocked her. “Of course I am. I have to work.”

“How will you do this job with a small baby at home?”

Her hands stacked in her lap. “Are you allowed to ask me that?”

“Probably not, but it’s a genuine concern. Will your husband be able to take over childcare while you’re traveling with me?”

She let out a lilting laugh. “Oh, I don’t have a husband.”

I would have been surprised if she’d said she did since her background check hadn’t turned up a marriage. But a lot could change in a little time, so anything was possible.

“Your boyfriend?”

“Same answer.”

For the second time, I was taken aback. The background check had revealed Catherine owned a house in Denver and lived with her partner. Whether they were still together was none of my business, and I was certain she’d tell me exactly that if I asked.

“Do you have a plan?” I pressed.

“You don’t have to worry about my plans, Elliot.”

“I do if it affects your work. Is this”—I outlined the shape of her stomach in the air in front of me—“going to slow you down?”

“Again, are you allowed to ask me that?”

With a heavy sigh, I scrubbed my jaw. This woman was stonewalling me, as always. If she weren’t so fucking efficient while also being unobtrusive and easygoing, I would have fired her for this trait alone.

“Whether I am or not is irrelevant. I’m asking. I need to know what to expect, or I’ll be thinking about it when I should be thinking about far more important things. So, tell me, will your ability to do this job be impaired?”

“No, it hasn’t been so far. You didn’t even notice my pregnancy, did you?”

I didn’t appreciate being called out on my lack of attention to detail. “You wear black most days.”

That, I had noticed. Catherine, in black, at her desk. Catherine, in black, sitting across from me, taking notes. Catherine, in black, meeting me in a hotel lobby. Catherine, in black, curls escaping her sleek ponytail.

My vision had been tunneled by design. Early on in my career, I’d learned not to mix personal with professional. I chose not to focus on the shape of my employees, specifically my assistant.

Catherine grinned, seemingly pleased to have gotten one over on me. “That’s true, but my point is, I’ve handled everything you’ve thrown at me just fine. I’ve never been more pregnant than I am right now so I can’t say for sure, but I predict my ability to assist you won’t be impacted.”

My brow winged. “And if I need to fly to Dubai next month? Will you be able to come with me?”

Her shoulders slumped. “No. I suppose you have me there. As exciting as an airplane birth sounds, my flying days are numbered.”

“An airplane birth sounds exciting to you?”

“No.” She rested a hand on top of her stomach. “Nothing about birth sounds exciting to me, but I’ve almost accepted I must do it.”

“You might have considered the whole birth process before deciding to get pregnant.”

She blew out a puff of air. “Not everyone plans things as thoroughly as you, Elliot. Sometimes they just…happen.”

“I find that’s not true.”

Her eyes half rolled before she caught herself and directed them to a spot over my shoulder.

“I guess I’m not as disciplined as you.”

“Not many are,” I agreed. “When can I expect a replacement to bumble into my life?”

“Are you asking how far along I am?”

I canted my head. “I thought I wasn’t allowed to ask things like that.”

“That didn’t stop you before.”

I opened my hands in my lap. “If it will get me the answer to my question, then yes, I’m asking how far along you are.”

“Thirty-two weeks.”

I blinked at her. “I don’t know what that means.”

“I thought you researched everything.”

“I research topics that interest or impact me.” I tugged on my cuff. “If I had known about this, I would have done some reading. Since I had to hear the news from Luca—”

She shook her head. “I knew he told you. I wonder how long it would have taken you to notice if he hadn’t.”

“We’ll never know.” I eyed her stomach. Her poor sweater would never be the same. She should have bought new clothing that fit. She would certainly have to soon. She’d probably been too busy to take care of it yet, which I understood.

“Pregnancy is normally around forty weeks. That means I have eight more weeks, give or take.”

“Give or take? Why isn’t it more precise? Surely medicine is advanced enough to give you an exact date.”

She did the thing where it was obvious she had something to say but rolled her lips over her teeth instead.

The hand on my leg balled into a tight fist. Her reticence to express herself fully drove me mad when it truly should have been a relief. I didn’t understand why it bothered me so much, but it did.

“I’ll have someone to cover for me. You don’t have to worry about that,” she replied.

I closed my eyes, shuddering at the thought of having to get used to someone else. Catherine had made it easy for me. That wasn’t usually the case with my assistants.

“Make sure of it,” I uttered more harshly than intended. Fuck, this was a nightmare. I didn’t want a different assistant. Catherine, despite her one annoying trait, had been the best I’d ever had.

“Of course, Elliot.”

I opened my eyes at her sharp tone. She’d already picked up her tablet, focusing on whatever she had been doing before I interrupted her. Which was good. We both had a lot to do, and it appeared we’d be stuck in this car for a while.

If I were alone, I would have said fuck it and walked back to the office. Since the last thing I wanted to do was send Catherine into early labor, we’d stay here, where the seats were soft and cushioned and there was no chance of a squalling infant making an appearance.