“I like what I’m doing just fine. I have a great department and good staff. I’ve worked hard to be a fair supervisor and to make sure we’re doing the best we can at all times,” Zoe snaps. She realizes her mistake too late, and I know if she could kick her own ass right then and there, she would. I’d love to see her try.
“Well, then. Sounds like quitting isn’t an option.”
“It is. Because I can’t and won’t work for you.”
“Can’t? I’m not a monster. In fact, when the company does employee polling, they always rate high on happiness and are very satisfied with the opportunities for training, their pay, the benefits, their workload, and their work environment.”
“Only because if they didn’t mark satisfied, they’d probably get fired.”
“It’s anonymous. Of course.”
“Of course.” Zoe rolls her eyes. “And there is absolutely no way to find out who is unsatisfied. Come on. You work in tech. I’m sure there are ways.”
“Ways which I would never use.”
“Still.”
“Still.” I shrug. “Think whatever you will. I’m not here to change your mind. I am here to tell you that you’re not quitting. That’s final.”
“Final? Who are you to say what’s final and what’s not? You’re such a…such an…such an asshole! Wait, no, that’s too good for you. You’re cactus poop.”
“Cactus poop?” I must say, I’m surprised again. We haven’t talked about poop ratings since I was twelve. And there was one which we ranked cactus poop. I have to struggle really hard to hold back a smile. “I’m afraid I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
Zoe’s eyes flash, and a pink flush creeps over her cheeks. “Yes, you do. I can tell. I told you that you’ve forgotten where you came from.”
“Unlike you, I still have my tattoo.” I hold up my palm. “And the scar here.” It’s true. A faint white line still runs across the upper part of my left palm, right where I cut it too deep with my dull jackknife. Yeah, I had to press really hard to get any cut at all, and I kind of slipped up at the end. It was about as gross and as painful as it sounds. I can say from experience that palms have a lot of nerve endings, and they take forever to heal.
“I…”
“You’re going to arrive at my house tomorrow night at six-thirty to discuss your role here and any future hopes and dreams you might have within the company and for the company? Sounds perfect. I’ll be waiting.”
Zoe backs up a step. Literally. She’s flustered now, and she’s looking to run. I also remember that about her. Her flight mode always did take precedence over any fight instincts. “I’m not coming to your house!”
“Alright. I’ll just have to fire…”
“Stop it!” Zoe’s hands ball into fists.
Maybe I was wrong about the fight instinct, and seeing her inner fire come to life is hot as fuck. Kind of literally, since my cock is throbbing again. It’s going to be a good half hour before I can safely leave this boardroom unless I use my bag and files and whatnot to cover my junk when I walk out. Even then, it would probably be pretty obvious what I was trying to hide, considering I’d have to hold it a foot away or risk damaging something. Mm, yeah, that’s not a risk I’m going to take. Ever.
“You’re such a prick,” she hisses. “Fine, I’ll come. I’ll come over,” she quickly clarifies, her face going scarlet. “Send me the address, and I better not have to go through any gates or security or whatever.”
“There are gates. I’ll have my assistant send you the details.”
“Of course you will. Of course there are gates. And an assistant.” Zoe gives me a dirty look, implying that, of course, I’ve also done dirty things with the said assistant.
If only she knew. Barb is sixty-two, and she’s going to retire in a few years. She has two children and six grandchildren, soon to be seven when her daughter has her baby next month.
I’m not such an asshole. I do know things about the people who work for me. And with me. I do care about their lives and jobs. I might not hesitate to absorb a struggling company or even pay top dollar for one I want, but that’s just good business. If other people want to see it as ruthless, well, I’m not going to argue pointlessly or try and change their minds. Semantics never really mattered to me because I work hard to be fair and treat people right. People can talk smack about me, and they can assume whatever they want, but I won’t tolerate people talking shit about my work ethics.
Because it is Zoe, and because I’ve purposely pissed her off, I let this one go. I can correct her later. And I did just invite her over to my house. What else is she supposed to assume?
I don’t know why I extended the invitation. Maybe it’s a combination of the fact that I don’t want to do the necessary catching up, bargain striking, convincing, or whatever in a place where anyone else can hear, and this was someone I once cut myself for—someone whose initial I still have inked—very badly and terribly—into my upper leg right near my hip.
I didn’t ask her over because I want to bang her.
Much.
Okay, so maybe my dick was doing a bit of the thinking there, but now that I put it out there, it’s not like I can actually back down.
“See you at six-thirty?”
“Fine.” Zoe blows out an angry breath.
She shakes her head, looks like she wants to say something, changes her mind, and storms out of the room. She almost—very comically—walks right into the glass
