Total pages in book: 73
Estimated words: 69858 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 349(@200wpm)___ 279(@250wpm)___ 233(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69858 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 349(@200wpm)___ 279(@250wpm)___ 233(@300wpm)
It’s so spot on, I squirm a little in my seat.
“I appreciate your confidence,” I say, meaning it. “But you and I have always clicked. You get me in a way that I don’t know other people would if I moved up the ladder. You said it yourself, the higher-ups want an Ivy League corporate superstar who looks the part.”
“So what? I have it on good authority from an Ivy League corporate superstar that my gut is right about you. That you should have the job.”
“Who?” But I already know.
“Thomas. The day he gave notice, he suggested I consider hiring internally for his replacement. And he mentioned you specifically.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Monday Evening, October 10
I get Thomas’s address from Collette. She provides it quite happily, though she also includes a smirk emoji + eggplant emoji that I choose to ignore as I walk the few blocks to his apartment.
Thomas’s building is nice. Really nice. The kind of nice that makes me re-think not accepting Christina’s offer today, because if this is what the salary affords . . .
Instead, I’d told her I need to think about it.
And before I can think about it, I have some words for Thomas Decker.
His building has a doorman, two of them, actually, so I have to wait impatiently while a nice guy named Van calls Thomas.
“You’re all good!” Van says with a smile as he hangs up the phone. “Go on up. Twelfth floor.”
Thomas’s expression is surprised when he answers my knock, and maybe a little wary. “Hey.”
“Hey,” I snap, pushing past him into his apartment, and stare around accusingly, looking for something not to like. There’s plenty.
It’s . . . pristine.
The counter tops are some sort of white stone, the utensil holder is sleek stainless steel, the stovetop is streak free. His laptop is open, and even that’s perfect, I bet he’s never touched it with Cheez-It fingers or known the panic of spilling a bit of coconut La Croix on the track pad.
The couch is some sort of gray, textured fabric that looks both expensive and comfortable, the coffee table is concrete and perfect, and . . .
Okay fine, it’s not that bad.
I whirl on him. “I got a job offer today.”
He says nothing.
“A promotion. And you’re not surprised,” I continue. “Because you were the one to suggest it.”
He shrugs. “So? You told me yourself Christina had offered you the position. All I did was tell her that her instincts were right.”
“That wasn’t your place!”
“Yes, it was, Mac,” he says.
He says it calmly. So calmly that my fists clench, because I’m in the mood to fight, for some reason, and he’s being all reasonable.
“I may have only been your boss for two weeks, but I was your boss,” he continued, “I gave it my very best, and ironically, part of being successful in that particular role meant realizing that I wasn’t the best person for the job. It took me all of two days of speaking with the team to realize that you were the best person for the job.
“And wait,” he says, holding up a hand with a quick shake of his head. “Are you here because you’re mad at me? Because I recommended you for a promotion?”
“You recommended me after I told you I didn’t want it.” I cross my arms, feeling defensive. “It’s like you thought you knew what was better for me than I did.”
I’m expecting—wanting—an apology for his high-handedness, but he doesn’t give it to me. Instead, he shrugs. “Maybe in this case, I do.”
My mouth drops open. “How—”
“We all need someone to encourage us to grow, and you don’t have that person, Mac. You’re the clear alpha in your relationship with Collette, your team would jump through hoops to do as you say, and it’s clearly not going to be your mom who pushes you out of your comfort zone—”
“Stop. You do not get to weigh in on my relationship with my mother because you’ve met her once.”
“I’m not. I just—” He looks frustrated. “If you don’t want to be a senior manager—”
“I don’t,” I interrupt.
“Right. Got it. If you don’t want to be a senior manager, that’s obviously your call, but don’t settle, Mac.”
“Just because my life plan doesn’t mimic yours doesn’t mean it’s settling.”
My response seems to nudge his frustration towards fed up, because his eyes flash angrily and he crosses his arms. “You clearly have no interest in hearing anything I have to say, so why are you here?”
I swallow, and because my work backpack is increasingly heavy on my shoulders, I shrug it off and set it on the floor, before dropping onto his couch. I cross my arms over my stomach, feeling a little defensive. A lot confused.
Thomas comes and sits beside me. Close, but not touching. Comforting, somehow, even though I sense he’s still frustrated.