Once the shock wore off, I started Steve’s old laptop and tried to log in to no avail, ringing IT who didn’t respond. I settled in with my system instead, connecting to the server for my first in-depth look at the numbers. I couldn’t believe my eyes as the data poured in.
Nate, a Corporate contact and longtime friend, mentioned things were slow, but nothing like the disaster flashing across the screen. There were no sales strategies, targets, or contracts — just a lot of what the fuck.
Out of desperation, I pulled in the inside sales manager, Marty, hopeful for direction, but he met each question with a shrug.
Nice guy.
Funny at times.
But fucking useless.
I bounced from Marty to Melvin, the only IT person on-site, hoping he could get into Steve's system. I found him in the lobby with a doughnut in hand flipping through the sports section of the newspaper. He wasn’t eager to help but was easily persuaded with an old-fashioned do this, or you’re fired. By his swift exit with the laptop in tow, it was clear he couldn’t unlock it either.
There were a lot of Melvins around the building — blank faces fixated on monitors with a spreadsheet up on one screen and solitaire on the other. It was a wonder the place hadn’t burned to the ground. If it had, there would have been a lot of idiots who cooked with it.
Despite the deadweight strewn about, there were signs of life from the cheerful receptionist to a support cell I'd kill for in Tampa.
The brunette blew me away — Elena Julian. She caught my eye from the moment I hit the sales floor. I studied the metrics for each department before going to meet everyone, and hers were more than impressive. She blew the others out of the water with her minimal error rate and entries through the roof.
I wanted to excuse her for a break after Marty mentioned everyone worked through lunch, but like everything else that day, it backfired. The words spewed out like a father scolding a child.
I tried to right the wrong during the intro meeting, only to fuck up worse while attempting to make light of it. For someone who made a living smooth-talking, I was choking hard. But stress would do it to anyone. God knows I had more than enough to go around.
I attempted to apologize after, only to overhear what she thought of me, and that was that. People called me a lot of things over the years, but I never had my sexual prowess called into question. I wouldn’t have it doubted by a fucking sales assistant.
Afterward, I retreated to my office for the day, hellbent on locking away any triggers. A shitty situation or not, I wouldn’t flip a lid on day one. Time in Ithaca would pass like a kidney stone, but it would pass.
The pressure of flipping the branch should have been my focus, but it wasn’t. And I should have been calling contacts like a hungry dog after a steak, but I wasn't.
Instead, I was muddling over a petite brunette in a green top between spreadsheets. I had no idea why she was wearing a fucking sweater in July, but I couldn't get her or the damn thing out of my head.
She was maddening, the way she so flippantly said missionary only as if she'd know. She wasn't anything like the women I enjoyed, a tiny thing with wild brown hair hanging in waves, her attempts at taming it with pins futile. She was soft with wide hips and ample bosom balancing her small frame. Far from the tall, leggy models who kept me company.
I mapped targets for the next month, plotting markers at various accounts and burying myself in the facts. Numbers and projections were my strength, and I lived for the industry.
Usually, I could zone out, focus on the data, and bang it out. But my mind kept wandering back to those soft curves. To the sweater that did nothing to hide them. How those rounded hips would feel in my grip.
I’d fuck her hard, forcing her to take back those biting words with each thrust. She'd be so hungover on me there would be no doubt in her mind about my sexual abilities.
I slammed a hand on the desk, desperate to kill the fantasy. I needed to get a grip. I had too much work to do. I could worry about my cock later.
I alternated between typing like a madman and cursing every bastard who talked me into the mess. Line after line, I laid out the facts, determined to make a firm statement about the bullshit I inherited.
As I completed another pivot table, I glanced out the window, the large, square panel my only view to the outside world. My old bay view was now an asphalt parking lot, a few scraps of browned ivy framing it in a depressing exterior set of curtains.
Employees were beginning to flood the area, escaping like rats from a sinking ship. One by one, they poured into the lot, plucking away cars until there was only a handful left. I wondered if they were all laughing at the shit storm I walked into.
Marty hobbled to his Mercedes, running a hand through what hair he had left, not a laptop or briefcase in sight. He wasn’t someone who put in the extra effort. In fact, he didn't seem to bother to work at all.
I'd deal with him in time but needed someone with a pulse in the role while I mounted an offense against the abysmal failure on the horizon.
Monica was close behind, walking in long strides as her blond locks whipped in the breeze. As much as I hated to notice, she was stunning. She was also aware of it, trying like hell to get attention. It might have worked with most men, but I wasn't game. Other than following a vow to never mix work with women, her
