Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 86573 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86573 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
“You lost your shit in a meeting? That’s so unlike you.” He rolls his eyes, then leans forward and digs into the stash of Brach’s candy I keep in a small silver galvanized pail. Unwraps a caramel loudly, crinkling the paper—on purpose—to annoy the shit out of me.
I narrow my eyes. “Fine. That might be a slight exaggeration, but I swear to fucking God, I don’t know who hired some of these people . . .”
He smirks, popping the candy in his mouth and chewing. “Uh. You?”
I make the sound of a buzzer. “Wrong. Human Resources. These are supposed to be the best of the best, and none of them had a single fucking idea.”
“Then I had a meeting with Peyton Lévêque, which was another fucking disaster to my already shit day.” Obviously it doesn’t escape my notice that I pronounce her damn last name correctly—fluidly—each syllable rolling off my tongue the way it rolled off hers. Silky. Exotic.
“You’ve just cursed four times.”
Jesus, he’s a pain in my ass. “Would you listen?”
“I’ll try, but I have no idea who this Peyton dude is.”
“Peyton is a female. And she quit this morning.”
Resigned. Quit.
Same thing.
“Damn, dude, that sucks. Did you pack up her shit and have security escort her out?”
“No. She’ll receive her full two weeks’.”
My friend’s dark brows rise. “Do you have a fever? Should I take your temperature?” He rises half out of his seat, reaching across the desk, aiming for my forehead with his palm.
I slap it away. “Knock it off.”
O’Rourke laughs—popping another one of my candies—chews, tilting his head to study me. “I have to see this chick.”
No, he does not. “Why?”
His brows go up at my tone. “She’s obviously affected you, or you’d be kicking her ass to the curb like you’ve done with anyone else who bailed.”
I scoff, turning my attention to the computer monitor. “What the hell are you talking about?” She has not affected me. I don’t even know her. “This is a business, not a goddamn dating service. Don’t shit where you eat—that’s what the no fraternizing policy is for.” I narrow my eyes at him. “Have you read it?”
His hand waves through the air. “That policy is bullshit and you know it.”
Now my eyes narrow. “Why? Because you’re breaking it?”
Another laugh. “Trust me, if there was someone here I wanted to screw, no stupid No Banging policy would stop me.”
Charming.
But Hunter isn’t done; not with stirring up shit and not with the idiotic comments. “So this chick left you hanging . . . you had no fucking clue who she was before your meeting. So you’re keeping her around because why? She’ll be done in two weeks, why not just kick her ass to the curb?”
I sigh, leaning back in my chair, loosening the tie I only wore to impress my investors. It’s shocking blue against my blue shirt with its sleeves rolled and pushed to my elbows.
Shoving my keyboard to the side, I lean forward, resting my forearms on the wood surface in front of me. Clasp my hands.
Shoot Hunter an impatient glare.
“I have no one to replace her with. Have you not been listening? This morning’s meeting was a fucking shitshow. If she leaves, I’m fucked. We’ve been pitching to Outdoor Ecosphere, and I need her for marketing.”
“But you said the marketing people sucked.”
“She’s not on the marketing team; she’s been doing all the social media, and she’s good.” I admit this last part begrudgingly, my lip actually curling.
How would I know? I stalked our online presence the better half of an hour, like a moron, clicking through our website, Instagram, and Twitter. Clean, branded, and timely, her posts are clever and funny—yet professional.
Just as her personal pages are.
And I would know, because I scoped those out pretty damn hard, too.
Shit.
Shit.
Shit.
“So you’re just going to let her stay.” Chew. Swallow.
Chew.
The squishy sound of gooey caramel being masticated makes me want to reach across the desk and strangle him.
“Yes.” I flip a pencil to occupy my hands until it rolls off the desk and falls to the floor.
“And you have zero interest in banging her.”
I raise my eyes and glare. “Why are you like this?”
Hunter O’Rourke shrugs beneath the plaid flannel of his shirt. “Why are you being so bitchy?”
Hunter and I have history; only he gets away with calling me bitchy, mostly because I’m aware I’m acting like an asshole. I am, in fact, being bitchy.
It’s no secret that I’m an unrelenting asshole; I don’t like cheerful people. Or being cheerful.
Or people.
Yeah—definitely don’t like people.
But I love O’Rourke like a brother, even though he’s nothing but a giant asshole most of the time.
We met in middle school when his family moved in next door, a big moving van pulling up to the front of a house that had been empty an entire four months a few weeks before school started.