Total pages in book: 156
Estimated words: 158829 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 794(@200wpm)___ 635(@250wpm)___ 529(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 158829 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 794(@200wpm)___ 635(@250wpm)___ 529(@300wpm)
“Pretty big flex. You’ve got the CEO mad enough to barge in micromanaging us,” she points out, flicking her hair over her shoulder.
“It feels like he’s looking for something, but I have no clue what. It would be a hell of a lot easier to find if he’d just tell us what he really wants.”
“Here’s a protip. When it comes to working with Brock Winthrope—he will never make things easy. Never. I promise. You should have let him buy us lunch. He owes us for this crap!”
“Hey, I need to keep it professional here. For reasons.”
“What would be so damn unprofessional about lunch with the boss and his assistant?” She’s quiet for a minute before a slow, catlike grin pulls at her lips.
I try not to shudder.
“You’re not over your little crush. That’s why you can’t stand having lunch with him,” she says matter-of-factly.
“You know you’re my best friend and I’d never tell you anything that isn’t true, right?” I say, staring her down.
“Yeah?”
“Okay. If you don’t shut up, I’m going to throw you down the hall. That’s not a threat. I used to put you to bed in college when you’d pass out in the break room.”
She rolls her eyes. “Sorr-y! I didn’t mean to hit a nerve, crankypants.”
“Liar.” I pick up the phone and call in a pizza order.
We keep working at the Everest-high pile of old ads until the front desk calls to say it’s been delivered.
“We need new copywriters.” I push my chair under my desk.
Jenn opens the door. “Why?”
“Because this stuff is mind-numbing. Ads need to be cute or funny or at least vaguely interesting to get attention these days.”
She nods. “Don’t be too harsh. People worked hard on that copy and it’s ten years out of date.”
“Maybe they need a workshop or something. Something to spice things up.”
We stop to eat lunch and make small talk about Maisy’s not-so-secret crushes and Jenn’s lovely grandma with her rustic inn on an island not far from here.
The day is almost over by the time we close out the last video, update our shared notes, and start moving on to the reviews from hell.
“Check this out. Here’s an interesting tidbit from Chicago,” I say, my eyes flicking over the words. “It calls the food 'inedible cat vomit,' but apparently the cuisine at the Winthrope Lanai wowed them.”
“Well, Chicago is a long way from Lanai,” Jenn says with a shrug. “Maybe the Chicago restaurant just sucks and the Lanai’s is awesome. Because, um, Hawaii.”
I frown.
She could be right.
Considering what happened to me, though, it’s safe to assume there could be some major glitches with all the resorts.
My office phone rings. “This is Piper.”
“Piper, it’s Keenan. Mr. Winthrope would like to see you in his office and he’s too much of a workaholic walrus to call you himself. Can you make it?”
“...sure,” I say after wincing. “Jenn too?”
“I believe he only requested you,” Keenan says quietly.
Oh, boy.
An image of Winthrope’s hot mouth tracing mine as he shoves me against his desk competes with the firing from hell where he’s roaring in my face and thrusting a box in my hands, ordering me to clean out my stuff and go.
“Do you know what it’s about?” I ask.
“I don’t. Sorry.”
“Okay. I’ll be there. Thanks.” I hang up the phone.
“What’s wrong?” Jenn asks.
“Winthrope wants to see me.”
“What now? Where does he find the time?” she huffs.
“Who knows, but I have a feeling it can’t be good.”
“Oh, relax. You’ll be fine. We didn’t do anything except hack through the jungle of blah he ordered us to.”
She’s right, even if that feels too easy.
I laugh. “Maybe he wants to cuss me out for having a spine.”
“Can you blame him?”
Yes.
He did lie about being a lowly resort manager.
I steel my spine, gather my courage, and march to Winthrope’s office without waiting for more sass from Jenn.
He’s just your average frowny man with an entire saguaro cactus up his butt.
Just a man with nine zeros in his bank account.
I can handle this.
I take a deep breath, ready to knock on his door, but he yells at me to come in like he has some sixth sense.
Psychic bastard.
Barely one step inside his office and I’m already rattled, but I keep moving.
“Report. I’d like your assessment of what you’ve seen today,” he clips.
Not even a hello.
Peachy.
And a report? Yikes.
I’m so not prepared.
“I don’t have anything written down,” I say flatly, refusing to show any fear.
His gaze sharpens.
“An oral report will suffice, Miss Renee. I trust a few hours of dusty ads haven’t short-circuited your razor-sharp wits.”
You wish, asshat, I think to myself.
“Well, we’ve gone through the videos, but we’re just starting on the reviews. My assessment isn’t much more flattering than yours—the old material sucks. It feels like it was made for retired guys who live on golf courses, and I can’t imagine the vibe was much different in 2012 or whenever.”