Right?
CHAPTER 12
Gemma
The elevator doors slideopen to Ashbury Thornton’s rooftop bar for the work do, and I’m assaulted by a deafening wall of sound—howling laughter, shouted conversations, and a bassline that makes my fillings vibrate in time.
It’s been a long week and it’s only Thursday. I feel like I’ve worked eighty days in four.
Lizzie’s eyes pop out of her skull. “Holy shit. It’s likeWolf of Wall Streetup here. A finance sausage fest!”
I want to tell her she’s exaggerating, but she’s not. This supposedly upscale office party has devolved into debauchery barely an hour in. Guys are popping thousand-pound bottles of premium champagne with wild abandon, oblivious to the fact they’re dousing their equally obscenely priced bespoke suits. It’s a health and safety nightmare.
“Take it easy, Lizzie,” I mutter as we push through the throng. You’d think someone laced the Pimm’s with cocaine, the way these guys are acting. I really hope they didn’t. I could do without any HR violations for one night.
“Hello there, handsome,” she purrs, flashing a smile at an analyst who eye-fucks her right back.
“Cool your jets, horn dog,” I hiss, yanking her back before she can pounce. “Steer clear of the finance guys, yeah? They’re nothing but trouble, trust me.”
“I’m just being friendly, Gem. You can’t just put duct tape on my mouth. Although . . .” She pauses, eyeing a particularly rowdy group of suits who seem to be reenacting a scene fromMagic Mike. “Some of these city bankers will be into that.”
I give a small, awkward wave to the few sober members of the finance team. “Right, you can flirt with Dennis from Accounts if you absolutely must get it out of your system.” I nod to poor Dennis sipping his drink shyly in the corner, looking like he’d rather be anywhere else. “But I’ll cut you off after four drinks. Remember, you’re representing HR tonight too. My professional rep is on the line here.”
Lizzie responds by cheekily lifting the hem of her skirt a few inches in time with the music. “Jeez, what do you think I’m gonna do, get up on the bar and strip down to my knickers?”
“It wouldn’t be the first time,” I mutter, having vivid flashbacks to our university days.
“Quit fidgeting with your dress, woman,” Lizzie chides, swatting my hands away as I fruitlessly attempt to coax the clingy material lower over my bare thighs. “You look fabulous. You’re giving me secondhand anxiety here.”
The dress is shorter than I usually wear, with a more plunging neckline that showcases my assets. And trust me, no one could accuse me of being too skinny to fill out a dress.
“I look fat,” I grumble, sucking in my stomach.
“You look like a sexy fairy. The green really brings out your red hair.”
“Great, I’m a ginger Tinkerbell. That’s not the vibe I was going for. My ass is so huge in this, I’ll need to get one of thosetruck reversing alarms for it,” I moan, envisioning myself backing up with a series of loud beeps.
She lets out a dramatic sigh and pulls me along. “Stop it, will you? You’re a total hottie.”
I swipe a couple of champagne flutes from a passing waiter and shove one into Lizzie’s hand as I spot Robbie, one of the few decent finance guys, chatting with a group of his brethren.
“Come on.” I nudge Lizzie. “Let’s go say hi to Robbie.”
His eyes go wide when he sees me, a grin spreading across his face. “Holy shit, Gemma, I hardly recognized you without your power suits.”
Lizzie preens beside me. “You’re welcome,” she whispers smugly.
I grimace, tugging self-consciously at the hem of my dress yet again. Maybe Lizzie has a point. I do wear an awful lot of them. “Thanks,” I say dryly. “This is Lizzie. Lizzie, Robbie.”
“Nice to meet you, Lizzie.” He shakes her hand, grinning.
One of the group, a smarmy prick named Brad, decides to chime in with a lecherous wolf whistle. “Damn, Miss Jones. You’re looking fine as fuck tonight. Who knew you were hiding all that under those frumpy blazers?”
I arch a brow, unimpressed. “Why are you calling me Miss Jones? I’m not your schoolteacher.”
His leer doesn’t falter. “Nah, but you can teach me a thing or two anytime.”
I level him with my most withering HR death glare, usually reserved for the Submitting False Receipts Is No Joke chat. “As flattered as I am by your charming offer, Brad, I think I’ll pass. I prefer my students to have a modicum of intelligence and respect for women.”
