“You stuck lead sales assistant in your email signature and appointed yourself queen of the castle!” Lee shot back.
Honesty wasn't on Monica's palate for the day, so she dropped into her seat without another word, a loud huff all she could muster.
“So, is it me, or is he a total workplace distraction?” Lee asked in a rough whisper. “He shouldn’t be allowed in the parking lot. I might sideswipe a car or seven.”
I shook my head with a smile. “Don't get me started...”
“I know. I saw you staring.” Lee burst into giggles, signaling she was only teasing. “It's a shame all that sexy is packed into a grouch!”
“You're telling me...” I trailed, opening my email to see that a fresh wave of complaints rolled in. “He got pissy over a lunch box.”
I tucked my pride and joy in a drawer beside my handbag at its mentioning, not wanting him to circle back and declare war. Lee bought me the macabre piece years before, and it was my lunch date ever since. I didn’t want to risk losing it in battle.
“But... he's not married.” Lee waved her very-occupied ring finger, the gold bands dazzling in the light.
I rolled my eyes, not honoring her with a response. She was ridiculous, and she knew it.
“I'm serious! He didn't have a ring!” she pushed.
“That means nothing. Besides, I'm not interested in a grouch. No matter how sexy.”
I wasn't speaking from experience, really. All the men I dated were nice guys until Justin. For all I knew, the brooding bad boy could live up to the hype. Just not that one.
“Why? It could be fun!” she protested, bouncing her arched brows.
I plucked an order from the top of the pile and slapped it to my desk. “Grouches are never fun.”
Her lips pulled into a cartoonish grin. “You're fun.”
I tossed a paperclip her way, stirring up more giggles. I was anything but fun since everything that happened, but I was glad my best friend thought so.
* * *
I barely touched the pile of entries when Marty pulled us in a meeting with Jason, cramming the entire office staff into the dingier of the conference rooms. I sat between Lee and an intern in the last row, trapped in a thick smog of recycled breath and clashing perfumes.
Barrett spent a chunk of time detailing his years as the director of Croft Tampa and his goals for our branch, dropping figures I had never seen in Ithaca. He knew the business inside and out, a stark contrast from Steve and Marty as he rattled off targets and lines without missing a beat.
While he was hardly pleasant in our interaction, he held my attention while everyone else tuned him out, a few of their scattered snores escaping. The long day had me tired, too, but having someone in charge with a clue was promising.
I tracked trends for years, only to have it dismissed by the product department and management alike. They weren’t interested in what I had to say, but the lumbering jerk seemed to be someone who would.
But like all things, the bliss didn’t last.
He dove into a speech about expectations, mentioning how unprofessional it was to eat at our desks. While he didn't call me out by name, it was no secret who he was referring to thanks to his hard glare all but pointing a spotlight on me.
Worse, he hit me with it throughout the meeting, and I wished I was sound asleep like the intern beside me, her head pressed against my shoulder as she snored away.
I forced my attention to the wall behind him, each passing glance burning as he leaned against the speaking podium with crossed arms.
When it was finally over, I was more than ready to flee, though our spot in the back meant we had to endure the shuffle of bodies like cattle while the room unloaded.
Once we reached the freedom of the hallway, we were far behind anyone else and in no hurry to get back.
“No wonder he's not taken,” grumbled Lee, letting out a ragged breath. “The man has the personality of toast.”
She released her mane from its clip, the red curls spreading wildly down her back.
I smiled. The guy desperately needed some zest. “Yup. Burnt toast.”
“It sucks. He has all that sexy and no spunk. Obviously, he strictly engages in outercourse,” she continued. “What a waste.”
“Definitely,” I agreed, still seething at his public finger-pointing. “Such a damn shame.”
And it was. Nothing was worse than a good-looking guy with a turd sandwich personality. God knows I had already taken a huge bite of the biggest one, Justin Riker. I was still brushing that taste out of my mouth.
“He probably thinks a cock ring is chicken jewelry!” Lee giggled. “Or that a clitoris is a type of flower.”
“He’s a missionary only guy,” I mused. “One speed, no kissing, and definitely no whammies.”
Jason
Motherfucker.
Another report showed a projected loss — the third straight in a row.
I checked them over, hoping I made a typo, but nope, it was my new reality.
Nightmare, really.
It was supposed to be an easy gig — a six-month stint to oversee the branch while Corporate found a permanent replacement. It also was enough time for the national director to wrap up and hand the reins over.
It wasn’t necessary to do Corporate the favor, but it’d look good and might come in handy. In our business, a small favor went a long way; a huge favor could be life-changing.
The day was a disaster, starting with my dump of an office with my name misspelled as Barit on the door. I should have known an assload of problems was to come after that gem.
My setup was a worn desk and faux-leather chair, potential visitors equipped with seats that appeared to be pillaged from a hospital waiting room, stains and all. If the branch manager’s office was a trash heap,
