Total pages in book: 127
Estimated words: 122382 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 612(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 122382 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 612(@200wpm)___ 490(@250wpm)___ 408(@300wpm)
“Your employer can’t dictate what you do in your spare time.”
“I don’t have any spare time, not with my job. It’s my everything.”
“That sounds less than healthy.” Kettle, meet pot. Though in my current assigned role, I expect that would cause a lot of chafing.
“I love what I do. It’s who I do it with that’s the issue. I work in an office that’s like a frat house. I spend ten-plus hours every day with a bunch of asshole finance bros.”
“Banking?”
“Hedge fund.”
“On the trading floor.”
Surprise ripples across her brow. “Yeah, how did you . . .”
“The balls on you, for one thing.” But talk about six degrees of separation. Well, six degrees plus the Atlantic.
“You think I’m ballsy?”
“You know you are. You’ve got more front than Bloomingdale’s,” I say, sounding like an old fart.
“Front. I like that.” Her amusement fades once more to a flickering frown. “Know thyself, right?” She gives a tiny shrug. “People usually assume I work a back-office role.”
“Then they aren’t paying attention.”
“It’s because I’m a woman. Or maybe because the back office is where I started. Thank you for the compliment, but right now, you’re confusing moxie with desperation.” She rolls in her bottom lip, chewing it a little. “I’m the only woman on the floor. It was bad enough when I only had to listen to those assholes. Being central to it is a whole other experience.”
I bite the end of my tongue to stop myself from asking. Not that she needs the invitation, apparently.
“When I was dating one of them, they left me alone. When he dumped my ass, it seemed all bets were off.” She slides away a tiny lock of her hair, her gaze avoiding mine.
“Bets?” The word is out of my mouth before I can stop it, though she continues as though I haven’t spoken.
“My ex proposed, and the CEO’s daughter accepted. A wedding was planned, our presence requested, and by that, I mean summoned.” Her frown is brief. “Good for the business, apparently. Today is an opportunity to show our clients how we’re all one big family. Or so the story goes.”
“We both know they can’t really make you go.”
“They can if I want a promotion. There or somewhere else. If I don’t go, I isolate myself, and I’ve had to work twice as hard as anyone there to get where I am. I won’t throw it all away.”
“You’re sure this is not about your ex?”
“Did you go to your ex’s wedding today just to be sure she was done with you?”
I scratch the back of my neck. “It was nothing at all like that.”
“Same. Like I said, I wouldn’t give him the pleasure of not seeing my face today. You see, I still have feelings for him.”
Well, that makes more sense. Though I’ve no clue why her words should feel like a fist to my face.
“I mean, those feelings are mostly loathing with a sprinkling of white-hot hate. But five days a week, and I’ve yet to give in to the compulsion to beat his brains into the carpet.”
“I applaud your self-control,” I say with a reluctant grin. “But if it’s not about him, why hire Cuddle Carl?”
“In support of a lie.” She gives a dramatic exhale, her bravado seeping out of her. “A lie I’ve been repeating for months.”
“That you have a boyfriend,” I guess.
“No. Kind of.” She gives her head a tiny shake. “That one of them won’t be taking me home at the end of tonight, no matter who has better odds.”
“Odds? You can’t mean . . .”
“That they’ve been running a book?” She nods. “It’s open season on the new boss’s ex since. I told them I had a boyfriend, not that it made one bit of difference. They don’t believe that I’m gonna show up with someone, despite my talking my invisible boyfriend up at every opportunity.”
“What?” The fuck.
“I know, right? I’ve sent myself flowers. Candies. Commissioned cute sketches and said they were from my artist boyfriend. What kind of a nutjob goes to all that amount of trouble? Well, I’ll tell you what kind of nutjob. You’re looking at her.”
“Fuck that. You should drag their arses to HR.”
“It’s a family firm. Old-school mentalities where boys will be boys. Meanwhile, men . . .”
Men, on the other hand, do the right thing. They open doors. Offer seats. Put cloaks over puddles and . . . annihilate misogyny? Or at least I was raised to treat people well. To have respect. And wouldn’t I have liked someone to rescue me from my ex’s tirade earlier?
“Looks like they’re right, anyway. I’ll be there alone.”
I almost groan with frustration. I’m no white knight, but that doesn’t stop me from feeling like I ought to do something, my desire for a quiet drink and my integrity pulling me in opposite directions.