Leaving work early, I gave myself an extra buffer as I rode in the back of a cab, crossing the bridge from Manhattan into the heart of Queens. In my lap was a chilled bottle of the best Champagne money could afford. It took a little more than that to pry Paul's home address out of Gerald's claw-like grasp. A couple of all-season tickets, courtside for the Knicks had gone a long way to loosening the shrivelled, old miser up. Jacqueline wasn't going to be happy when I told her about the unfortunate trade, but seeing as it was her suggestion that I do whatever I could to patch things up with Paul, this was invariably her fault.

The cab rolled to a stop outside of squat little apartment building, the muddy brick washed out and faded against the black fire escape slicing down like a jagged bolt of lightening. Its identical siblings lined the rest of the street as far as I could see in either direction. Leaning towards the window, I did my level best not to grimace.

Charming.

The driver swivelled around in his seat, rapped a knuckle against the divider. "Thirty-eight even, doll."

"Sure," I said, hunting around in my pewter grey Chanel for my wallet. I pulled out two crisp twenties. "Keep the change."

Opening the door, my shoes hit the pavement and I tried not to cringe. The air smelled of exhaust, God, I thought, shutting the cab door behind me. I hadn't considered myself such a snob, but as I picked my way along the sidewalk, trying to touch as little of it as possible, I realized perhaps Paul's assessment of my character wasn't too far off. By the entrance door, I skimmed a finger along the intercom until I found his last name, and pressed the round, flat button next to Loduca, 4A.

"Hey," his voice sang out, bright as the coral slacks he'd worn to work one day. In January. "Come on up." Before I could utter a single word, the door hummed, the locks disengaging.

Well, I thought, that was easy. And swung inside.

The challenge, however, presented itself the moment I was outside of 4A and Paul answered the door, his smile obliterated by a puzzled scowl.

"You're not Hong-Shing's delivery guy."

"No," I held up the Cristal. "I am not."

Paul's eyes dipped to the golden bottle. "That can stay, you can leave." When he reached for the champagne, I moved it out of his grasp.

"Five minutes," I said. "Give me that, and then I'll go."

Huffing impatiently, he stepped back and held the door open for me to step inside, shutting it smartly behind me. Cute and chic were my initial impressions. A small, little space but expertly furnished in bold, unapologetic tones of sapphire, charcoal and accents of gold and chrome. Pops of colour splashed about, contrasted by rough, reclaimed wood. I spun around.

"You live here alone?"

"I do." Paul crossed thin arms and popped a hip.

My spine jerked a little straighter. New York, by "And you can afford the rent all by yourself?"

His eyes narrowed at my incredulous tone. "B!tch, I own."

"Oh, Paul," I giggled. "I've missed you." And that, I realized by the way his mouth dropped open, was the right hook he hadn't seen coming. "Come on, let's open this baby." Hooking my arm through his, I led a shell-shocked Paul into his galley style kitchen. All modern, sleek grey cabinets and frosted glass uppers. Lights winked on inside of them as I turned on the main switch by the fridge, hidden behind paneling to echo the cabinetry.

"Glasses?"

"Top. Left," Paul said, his voice thin with disbelief, and took him the length of time I needed to pop the cork and filled up a couple of flutes to shake off.

"Serious, Laura, what are you doing here?"

Lifting the glasses, I handed one to him, the frothy bubbles liking the inside of the clear vessel.

"I've got some fantastic news to share."

Paul rolled his eyes with a groan. "Oh f-ck off with your-"

"I've landed Nishizawa. And wrapped up the Malaysia mess," I interrupted with a grin. "Tonight I am having dinner with the Board of Directors to celebrate these latest accomplishments. I want you to get dressed and come with me. And come back, Paul."

"Why?"

"Because, as I've already said, I've missed you." I brushed my glass against his in toasting. "And I meant it."

"You want me," Paul repeated, pointing a finger at his chest, "to come to dinner with you? And the Board of Directors?"

"Yes," I nodded. "I do."

He answered that with a razzing buzz of his lips. "This has got to be some sort of joke. I haven't been gone long enough for a temp to swoop in and botch things that badly," he said, waving his drink for flourish. "And you've never given me much thought, or showed any interest in me before."

"You're right," I agreed, pausing to sip. Yum. Bright, crisp notes of golden pear flowed across my tongue, fading into tart apple with a lengthy finish; all balanced by a toastiness behind the fruit, adding a layer of gravitas one would expect from a luxurious bottle. "You were right about everything."

"What was I right about, exactly?"

Sighing, I lifted the bottle, nodded towards the quaint little living room. "Shall we?" Conceding, Paul followed me to the charcoal settee. The space wasn't much larger than a decent sized hotel room, but he had gone to great lengths to make the most of the minimal square footage. A vibrant yellow area rug pushed against the dark blue walls and the mirror backed TV wall unit gave the illusion of added depth.

Sinking into the plush seating, I crossed a leg, placing the bottle on the steel side table.

Paul watched me curiously, sipping quietly from his glass while I gathered myself, trying to find the right way to say what needed to be said, to explain the core of who I was, a conversation I wasn't used to having. Not with anyone. Ever. But I owed him this, I had come here intent on making good on that debt.

So, draining my glass, I decided I needed to just get on with it.

"You know I have an older brother, right?"

"Collin," Paul answered. "Tops you by two years, isn't it?"

Damn, I smiled. He was good. "Yes. Four years. We grew up in the shadow of our parents, a senator father and a philanthropist mother-a woman who traveled to the heart of Zaire in 1976 during an Ebola pandemic to administer medicine and equipment to hospitals and local community housing caring for the sick and the dying." I reached for the bottle, topping up my glass, bubbles shooting up to rim. I stopped them from overflowing by drinking quickly.

"Sounds like some big shoes," Paul offered, crossing a skinny leg over a bony knee, the cuff of his jeans hiking up to reveal an ankle a thin as my wrist.

"Yes. Massive shoes. Shoes my brother had no interest in trying to fill. And my parents would never had dared try to force him to mold into their image. That was never their style, but being raised in such a household...demands certain expectations. Expectations I've made it my mission to uphold. I've put myself through the best schools and into top tier companies, on my own merit," I emphasized. "I never called in favours, held out my hand for a leg up. Never. Not once. I've succeeded through hard work, and grit and sheer determination because I wasn't going to be that girl, floating through life on her trust fund, playing the social circle and dangling from some politician or celebrity or other silver spooned brat's arm. I wanted to make something of myself, for myself, by myself."

"And you have."

"Yes, I have. And every step along the way was fraught with people trying to trip me up, hold me back, or worse, use me as their own personal spring board to smash through their own glass ceiling. Anyone I've ever come into contact with who was beneath me wanted something. Wanted to use me in some way." And because the memories came with a bitter edge of disappointment, I washed them away with effervescent wine.

"Associates, colleagues, friends...lovers...all they saw was a rung on a ladder, a way up and over me, digging their feet in as they trod over my prostrate body in their haste. And that list does include assistants. A few, back in the day, even thought they could oust me and place themselves in my seat. And that's not as outlandish as it sounds," I said when Paul snorted. "A Barbie or two has managed to do so in the past with a few of my other less fortunate colleagues. And made a fucking mess of things; a mess I corrected when I took over as CEO. That's way I stopped taking on young women for administrative support, and brought you on board. I thought a man in the role would be a refreshing change, and less of a nuisance in the long run. I never expected to like you, Paul. Honest truth, I didn't. You are flamboyant, flippant and flashy."

He set his lips into a sarcastic smirk. "Gee, thanks.

"But you're also dedicated, capable, hardworking and resourceful. All are attributes I respect and admire. Tell me," I said, nudging his leg with my knee. "Where do you see yourself in five years?"

His skin flushed at the question and he squirmed a bit, uncrossing and crossing his legs. "I...I don't really..."

"Tell me."

"You're going to laugh."

I raised a hand, crossed it over my heart. "Scouts honour. Please."

Paul wiggled his shoulders, rolling the stiffness out of them. "In truth, I see myself exactly where I am. I like assisting. I've always been good a catering to people, and I like working with the high powered and high in demand. It means the job is always going to be evolving, changing, and there's going to be challenges from one day to the next." He set his flute against his leg, rolling the small disk back and forth.

"But at the same time, being an assistant provides a degree of flexibility--it means I can have a life. I can take off for a vacation and won't always have to worry about the stress of deadlines and corporate politics, or someone looking to steal my desk," he added with a smirk for my benefit. "I'm not ambitious, but that doesn't make me a slacker."

"And that," I said with a nod, "is where I made my mistake. I had my assumptions, and you called me out on them. So, I'm here to say I'm sorry. Sorry for being the cold b!tch the administrative team warned you about. More importantly, I'm sorry for not recognizing that not only are you an asset to Iconic, but to me, as well." Reaching between us, I set my hand over his, felt the jolt of surprise course through him at my earnest touch. "I want us to be friends, Paul. If you'll let me."

He looked down at our joined hands, then lifted smiling eyes that sheened with the promise of tears.

"Dammit," he drew a knuckle underneath them, "you're getting me misty and I don't ruin my mascara for anyone."

"Mascara?" I snorted, giggling into my hand. "Seriously, Paul?"

"Don't act like you don't want my lashes, okay?"

"To be honest I never looked close enough to notice before," I admitted, and now that I was he did have some stellar length and volume, accented with just enough to provide dimension without clumping.

"That stuff is incredible. What brand do you use?"

"Come, come, darling." Paul stood up, wiggled a hand for me to take. "I'll show you my goodies while you help me pick out something to wear. Bring the bottle."