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 bothers me way more than it should, but I’m pretty sure that’s only because I’ve been going through a dry spell myself. I beat Thomas back to the office and spend the last few minutes of my lunch break on TapThat. I haven’t used the dating app much at all since the disastrous evening where I met Thomas, and I’m feeling a little itchy from lack of . . . companionship.
But just because I like casual doesn’t mean I’m not particular, and none of the guys the app is suggesting do it for me. I close the app without tapping anyone, feeling fussy and frustrated. Maybe I’m overthinking it, maybe I should just . . .
I unlock my phone again, and before I can talk myself out of it, I text Kris Powers.
Drinks tonight? You owe me.
I add a kissy face to soften it, but seriously—he does owe me.
Not only for standing me up, but also because technically this is his fault that things between Thomas and myself are so strange. Had Kris shown up that night at Smoke & Baron, I’d never have rejected Thomas, he’d never have had to see me reject him. In fact, I doubt we would have noticed each other at all. He’d just be some guy drinking a martini, sitting next to a couple on a date.
Yeah, yeah, Thomas would still be my boss and Jon’s brother, but we’d have been able to navigate those with a lot less awkwardness had it not been for The Night.
Like I said: Kris’s fault.
“Mackenzie. You can’t be serious.”
I whirl around and make a squeak of outrage when I see Thomas standing right behind me, unabashedly looking over my shoulder at the message I’ve just sent.
“What the hell! Creep, much!”
“Sorry.”
I narrow my eyes. “No, you’re not.”
“This is the guy that stood you up?” He bends down to get a closer look.
“He apologized,” I say defensively. It had been a lame apology, I believe the exact text had been Shit, sorry babe. And it had come two days late. But still, an apology was an apology.
The look Thomas gives me is downright pitying, and it pisses me off. Holding his gaze, I pick up my headphones and slowly, purposefully put them in my ears. Go away.
Thomas gets the hint, returning to his own desk. We both get back to our work, though the mood in our shared office feels a touch more acrimonious than it had been during the morning hours.
Even when I break to pee and then take a walk around the block to stretch my legs, we don’t acknowledge each other’s presence.
Just before four, he scoots his chair towards mine and taps my elbow none-too-gently. “Hey. I just got a meeting invite for the kickoff call with Insurgence tomorrow morning. Got a minute to prep?”
“You’re the boss.” I turn off Pat Benatar. “How early tomorrow morning?”
Thomas runs a tongue along his teeth. “You’re not going to like it.”
I sigh. “There are very few things I hate about Paris, but the six-hour time difference is one of them.”
“The meeting’s at seven—” he says over my groan. “But I did ask that we aim for eight or later in the future. We’ll see how it goes.”
“You’re one of them, aren’t you?” I accuse. “One of those terrible morning people? I bet you are. You look like one.”
“Guilty. I take it you are not?”
“Nope. Committed night owl as long as I can remember. So don’t expect charming Mac at seven am.”
“Have I even met charming Mac?”
I narrow my eyes.
“How about this?” he says with a slight smile. “There’s no way to get around the time difference between here and Paris. But outside of the necessary conference calls, you can make your own schedule. I don’t care if the work gets done at nine am or three am as long as it gets done.”
“Wow. Thanks,” I say, a little surprised. Elodie has become increasingly flexible in the past couple of years about where we work, but they’re pretty old-school in the nine-to-five thing. I wouldn’t have expected Mr. Rulebook to be the first boss to fully respect that not everyone works the same way, at the same time.
“No prob,” he replies. “I’m a little jealous, actually. Not about the three am thing, but that your job in all this will have such a clear deliverable.”
“Yours doesn’t?”
“I’m a middle manager,” he says with a slight smile, as though this explains everything.
“Yeah, what even is that?” I joke. I mean, I know, but I don’t really know. It’s part of the reason I had balked when Christina had suggested I might want to step into those shoes.
“Exactly,” he says with a quiet, self-deprecating laugh.
“No, I’m really asking,” I say curiously. “I mean, I’ve had a couple of bosses in your role before you, but mostly they were just there for performance reviews and if I needed to request time off. I’ve never been clear on what they actually did with their time. No offense,” I add quickly, realizing I’m being perhaps a bit too familiar. And borderline insulting.