Total pages in book: 157
Estimated words: 159208 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 796(@200wpm)___ 637(@250wpm)___ 531(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 159208 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 796(@200wpm)___ 637(@250wpm)___ 531(@300wpm)
Eliza winces.
“That’s rough, but who cares, right? You’re working for him, not warming his bed. In fact, in HR circles, that’s a big no-no.”
“Still. It shows you what a fire-breathing jerk he is.”
“Are you okay? You’re a little red,” she tells me, her eyes widening.
“I’m just annoyed.” Yeah. More like flustered. Hating that my ticket to financial freedom and a better life involves this bitchslap to the face. “Even if the rumor mill didn’t say he was undateable, his freakout in the coffee shop basically proved it. If I were the sort of girl who believes in cheesy crap like love, I wouldn’t date a guy who loses his shit over a cinnamon roll.”
“Is that cool, though? Like how will you market weddings? You just said you hate cheese.”
“If I ever have a dog die, I’ll bury it in my backyard. But that didn’t keep me from selling puppy plots.”
“You don’t have a backyard. Also, buzzkill.”
“Good point, but I also don’t have a dog.” I sigh, sipping my coffee before I continue. “Then there were the lame jokes about my last name.”
Eliza sips her coffee. “I don’t get what that has to do with anything.”
“Nothing, I guess. Just makes him extra undateable. You’d think a man so awful could at least make you laugh... I’m just saying. Why would I ever date a certified bosshole? Why would anyone?”
“He was probably just teasing you, but who are you trying to convince? Me or you, Dakota?” She stares at me, waiting for an answer.
I feel a little dizzy, and I know it’s not just the coffee and sweets.
“You, of course. Who else? I won’t even joke about dating the d-bag going forward. Since you brought it up, I’m just trying to let you know why it won’t happen.”
“But I didn’t exactly bring it up...”
Didn’t she? I replay our conversation in my head.
Wait.
Oh, God.
She’s right.
What am I stumbling into? I’m writing for an industry I hate and reporting to a man who might be criminally insane.
Oh, let’s count the ways this could go wrong.
It’s true that my growing salary means I’ll no longer be a disposable intern or busy fixing some creative idiot lead’s mistakes. But is there more wrong than right with this job?
It’s a decent move up, all right, but at what cost?
Can I actually survive this?
“You got quiet,” Eliza urges softly.
“I’m okay.” I hope.
“Buyer’s remorse?”
“Not yet.” But I’m terrified once I actually start the job, buyer’s remorse might be the least of my concerns.
I finish my coffee and scones while we talk about the latest happenings around the neighborhood.
“I should go. He wants me to start right away, and I have a million things on my mind. The first is how I’m going to tell my current employer I can’t give two weeks’ notice. Thanks for the coffee and moral support.”
“Anytime, Dakota. If you need anything at all, just give me a shout. I’ve got your back, but I don’t think you need it. You look ready.”
“Yeah, thanks,” I mutter.
I so, so wish that was true.
When I creep back to my own four walls, I wonder how much I’ll regret my wishes coming true.
4
Ghost Upon The Floor (Lincoln)
What a fucking day.
I know I’ve pissed off the universe when Nevermore, the pastry thief, turns out to be the most qualified candidate we have for the wedding line.
Just my luck.
She might be a black cat disguised as an angel and incredibly naive—why the hell did she spill her salary in the interview?—but at least she has writing chops.
That’s what matters.
That’s what makes me take a chance on a hire that’s one big red flag whipping me in the face.
Her personality might be difficult, but once she’s settled into working under me, I’m confident she’ll fall in line. If she brings the same spark to her ad copy, she’ll also make me money hand over fist, whatever our personality clashes.
When all’s said and done, that’s the endgame.
I’m ready to get the hell out of here by the time evening rolls around. I grab the cinnamon rolls I bagged up and leave, walking past rows of empty desks. My driver, Louis Hughes, the only employee who’s been with the company longer than I have, waits at the curb. I open the door and slide into the back seat.
“Welcome back, Mr. Burns. Home?” he asks.
“Wyatt’s first,” I say, instantly aware of how he glances back with concern.
“Will do.” He pulls onto the street.
By now, he knows the address by heart, even if it isn’t on any Google Maps.
I thumb through my email, responding to items Lucy flagged for me. I’m going to be completely boned when she goes on leave. Her organizational prowess makes it infinitely easier to manage this company.
I’ve made it through five emails when the car stops in front of the familiar, large encampment. There’s a typical Seattle spring rain pelting the windows, turning the tents outside into smears of color against the night.