Total pages in book: 65
Estimated words: 61440 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 307(@200wpm)___ 246(@250wpm)___ 205(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 61440 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 307(@200wpm)___ 246(@250wpm)___ 205(@300wpm)
Yes.
My. Own. Last. Name.
I’ve been Eleanor Seyfried—pronounced SIGH-fred, not SIG-freed—for twenty-eight years. One would assume I know how to pronounce it. Unless one were Stephen, or one of the other Wall Street dude-bros who make Seyfried & Holt a challenging place to work for anyone without a Y chromosome.
I would bet a thousand dollars Stephen has never dared to tell my brother that he’s mispronouncing the name etched in gold outside his door.
“Have you explained this to Ryan?” I blink innocently as I point toward his office.
“Nah.” Stephen’s lips pucker and his brows dip into a V. “Ryan knows. He’s a shark, your brother. Never stops swimming. Always thinking.” He snaps his fingers several times, the sharp snick making my teeth itch. “Synapses always firing.”
I’m about to tell Stephen that I understand Ryan’s nimble brain well, because I also scored high on my GMATs—one hundred points higher than my brother, in fact. But before I can speak, Ryan emerges from the executive lounge.
“Ryan! There you are.” My arm surges into the air, fingers wiggling. “Glad I caught you. I need a word before you leave for the airport.”
“Sure thing, but I’ve only got five, ten minutes, tops.” Ryan’s brown eyes flick from me to Stephen and back again, a distracted smile on his face. “Hey, Rictor, how’s the Ian Fox account going? You seal the deal?”
“Not yet, but I’m close,” Stephen says, his chest puffing up. “Should have him on the hook by the end of the month.”
“All right, but let’s keep in touch on this one. He’s primed to hit a new level with his career now that he’s signed with the Badgers,” Ryan says, throwing the rest over his shoulder as he pops into his office. “I’m meeting with him in Portland. I want to be sure we’re all on the same page about what Seyfried and Holt can offer him that other wealth management companies can’t.”
“Gotcha, chief,” Stephen says before winking and adding in a voice for my ears only, “Gonna miss your pretty face around the office, slugger. Don’t be a stranger, okay?” He backs away, pointing at my chest. “And send us a copy of your article, when you’re finished. My mom loves that stuff. She takes all my press mentions to church to show her friends. It’s super cute.”
“Super cute,” I echo with a queasy smile as I lunge after Ryan, shutting his office door behind me with a combination sigh-groan that makes my brother laugh.
“A week out of your writer cave that rough on you, sis?” He smiles at me from across his massive oak desk, where he’s busily tucking folders into his briefcase. “You appear to have showered recently. I’m impressed. Surprised…but impressed.”
“Very funny. Yes, I’ve been showering daily, but that’s not the problem.”
“Glad to hear it.” He taps at his cell, attention fixed on the screen. “Just in case you need to look for a job outside your lair, showering is a good life skill to keep in your arsenal.”
“Again. Hysterical. You should do stand-up in your spare time.” I keep my tone light, though the reminder of the tenuous nature of my freelance writing gig compared to Ryan’s high-salaried, big-bonus position isn’t the most welcome at the moment. Especially considering I might have to cancel the “Not Your Mother’s Wall Street” article I’ve been working on for the editor at Barrington Beat. If I do, the week I spent here investigating will have been a waste of time. “But I need the not-funny Ryan right now. Seriously. There’s a problem.”
He looks up, his smile fading. “Is Dad okay?”
“Dad’s fine,” I say, with a frustrated huff. “Which you would know if you called him every Sunday. You know he wants you to call, too. It’s family check-in, not Ellie check-in.”
“But he keeps me on the hook for hours, El, and you make sure I stay abreast of all the news that’s fit to print,” Ryan says, his golden boy grin coming out to play.
“Speaking of fit to print… I can’t write the article, Ryan. At least not the way I pitched it. It’s not going to work.”
His brow furrows. “What? Why not?”
“Because this is still our mother’s Wall Street, or more like our father’s.” I wave my hand toward the world on the other side of his door. “Different technology, different slang, but it’s still the same ol’ boys’ club underneath.”
“What?” He props his hands on his hips. “But you said it yourself—we have more women working for S and H than any other financial firm our size. We’ve stepped up our recruiting efforts for female candidates, revamped our family leave policies… We’re almost at a fifty-fifty male to female ratio for new hires, El. What other firm can say that?”
“Yes, and that’s all great. But most of the female hires are making less money for the same jobs, or they’re starting from the bottom while the men—many of them with less experience—are going straight into management positions,” I explain. I can’t believe my detail-obsessed brother has managed to overlook these facts. “And a lot of the women are only part-time. They don’t have benefits, job security, or—”