“The culture? It’s about what you’d expect. Billable hours matter. Bringing in business matters.” I feel my jaw twitch mentioning this. “Just keep your nose to the grind and you’ll be fine.”
She lowers her eyelids in understanding, then raises them higher than before, making her eyes look wide. “And the partners?”
I consider what to say, mostly how to be diplomatic about it. “It’s…and old boys club. Very, uh, New England.”
She laughs. “You can say WASP in front of me, Jesse. I am one after all.”
I flash a tight smile. “Perhaps if you told me exactly what it is you’re concerned about?”
Most of this is stuff she’d easily pick up on after a good month here. I don’t know why she’d waste either of our time asking such inane questions.
She gives me that wide-eyed stare again. They fall to the roses then flash back up to me.
I simply raise my brow waiting for a substantive question.
“I guess I’m just looking for an ally. Someone who can help smooth the way for me with people here. Not just partners and attorneys of course. I realize that the help matters too,” she says, with a laugh at her little euphemism.
“You should probably start by not calling the staff ‘the help.’” I frown, annoyed by her tactlessness. “I don’t know if I’d be able to smooth your way out of that one.”
Her smile disappears and she goes red with embarrassment.
“Actually, I did want to ask you something specifically,” she says, probably picking up on the fact that I’m this close to leaving. This really is a waste of time. If she wanted to get in good with ABC, she should start by working on something that’s billable. “The gala next Saturday, is it true that not attending is the surest way to avoid partnership?”
“I wouldn’t say the surest way, but it definitely doesn’t look good. You should go.”
“So you’ll be there?”
“Of course.”
A pert smile appears on her face as she slides her eyes to the vase of roses again. “I suppose I’ll be taking Tyler.”
Of course, I think with irritation.
Her eyes are back on me, wide once again. “And you? Will you be bringing someone?”
Now, I get it.
Her agenda.
Emily is trying to make me jealous.
The roses on her desk. Bringing up the gala and Tyler. Asking me about who I’m bringing, probably already picking up on the fact that I’m not seriously dating anyone.
Despite myself, I feel a surge of adrenaline pump its way through my veins.
It’s the challenge of it more than anything, even Emily herself. I’ve never been able to back down from one. Every kid in school who dared tap me for a fight. Every teacher who pointed out how unlikely it would be for me to “get away from my circumstances” (as though growing up in a blue-collar large family was the worst thing in the world). Every classmate who decided to play the smartass with me. Even the professors at Harvard with their Socratic method.
They had no idea how much I enjoyed proving myself.
I should know better.
Don’t take the bait.
But I can’t help myself.
“Of course I’ll be taking someone.”
Watching that slight falter in her smile, the quick blink of surprise, the inhale of disappointment.
She wants to play?
Game on.
Now, I just have to find a date.
Chapter Fourteen Honey
Engaged!
I stare at the news on my phone feeling, well, there are just far too many emotions running through me to bundle them under one banner. Outraged. Hurt. Blindsided. Humiliated.
Pissed the hell off!
With my moratorium on all things Francis lifted, I’ve been googling him and that tart (mean, I know, but I’m feeling a bit raw) this week. I was relieved to find there wasn’t much in the news or social pages.
Until today.
I reread the headline on my phone just to twist the knife a bit more: A Merger Down the Aisle.
How romantic.
Most of the articles about Francis Hickenbatter and Maude Astor are focused on the fiscal aspect of their little merger—even down to the value of the five-carat ring he presented her with only yesterday.
I refuse to read the entire thing just to have that dollar amount thrown in my face again.
But to find out on the eve of St. Valentine’s Day?
As if I needed any confirmation that it’s over between Francis and me, this is the one thing that certainly cements it.
He knows how I feel about this holiday more than any other day.
To make matters worse, my foot hasn’t healed enough for me to even consider working, so I’m stuck at home alone while all my friends are otherwise occupied in various arenas of the world of entertainment.
As if I’d ruin anyone’s weekend of love (oh how I hate that the holiday falls on a Sunday this year!) with my morbid news.
“The bastard didn’t even have the decency to officially break up with me first.”
I lean back against my headboard and stare at the wall.
“I’m going to have to move.”
Despite Jerome’s protests, there’s no chance in hell that I’m staying here, or accepting another damn thing from Francis.
I’ll just get a day job to supplement my nocturnal career like I did before I met Francis. Like everyone else I know in the world of entertainment.
At least then my days will be less lonely.
Yes, I’ve been spoiled. Very spoiled.
But there’s something encouraging about the idea of making it on my own once again.
Honey Dewberry, independent woman at large.
I hiccup a laugh.
The phone vibrates in my hand and a message pops up, blocking out the upsetting headline about Francis’ engagement.
The text is from Mama: I know tomorrow is a big day for you. Just wishing you a happy [a red heart emoji in place of St. Valentine’s] day early. It ends with several pink and red heart emojis.
For some reason this is the thing that makes me cry, mostly out of happiness—which is telling.
I smile as I switch out of the newspaper
