“No, boss.” Ollie slinks out of the office, the door clicking shut behind him.
As much as I’m not an Ollie fan, I can’t ignore the way my pulse kicks into overdrive the moment it’s just me and McLaren.
Alone.
The temperature in the room seems to heat ten degrees.
McLaren rubs his jaw, eyeing me. Seriously, the man’s bone structure is so ridiculously chiseled, I’m surprised he doesn’t slice his pillows in his sleep. “Okay. I’ll handle the Brandon situation myself. I’ll make sure he thinks twice before pulling another moronic stunt like that.”
I’ve lost count of the number of times I’ve been asked to turn a blind eye to the appalling behavior of Ashbury Thornton’s “top talent.” Ollie not only tolerates it, he practically hands out gold stars. McLaren just takes them aside for a “chat.” It’s one of the things I hate most about this job—it completely undermines HR’s authority.
“With all due respect, sir, it’s not just Brandon,” I press on. “The work environment here is getting out of hand. Even by Ashbury Thornton’s . . . relaxed standards. When a grown man throws furniture and no one blinks, we’ve got a problem.”
He exhales sharply through his perfectly sculpted Roman nose. God spent extra time on that nose.
As with every meeting, I can’t shake the feeling that his next words could be “pack your shit, you’re fired.” Maybe he’ll even go full Alan Sugar and point that long finger at me, like we’re on a twisted version ofThe Apprentice.
“All right. Compile a list of our most critical cultural issues, and I’ll step in and lay down the law. But you’d better have a bulletproof recruitment acceleration plan ready to present by the end of tomorrow. Whether it’s more money, more manpower, or sacrificing a man to the gods—I don’t care. Just make it happen.”
I nod, my face a perfect mask of professionalism. “Understood.”
“Good.” His sensual mouth twists into a displeased razor slash. “One more thing. Push the all-staff meeting back to Friday. Something’s come up.”
I grit my teeth. He says it like he’s asking me to move a potted plant, not reorganize the schedule of hundreds of overworked, overpaid, and over-caffeinated finance maniacs.
Apparently my acting skills need some work, because McLaren’s eyebrow does that infuriating arch. “Problem, Gemma?”
“Not at all,” I reply coolly. “Consider it handled. I’ll send out updated calendar invites within the hour.”
Every night, I push myself to the brink trying to keep up with this job’s never-ending demands. And every morning, a fresh disaster awaits with my first slurp of coffee.
Yesterday morning, it was peeling a bawling intern off the bathroom floor, her mascara running down her face in black tears as she questioned every life choice that led her to Ashbury Thornton.
Then in the afternoon, I had to call security to pry a junior analyst off his desk after he face-planted, riding the fumes of a three-day coke bender in a tragic attempt to meet an impossible deadline.
And now, thanks to McLaren’s latest sadistic whim, I have to overhaul a massive meeting in twenty-four hours.
But I’ll get it done. I always do. Even if it kills me, which is a real possibility at this point.
“That’ll be all,” he dismisses me, already turning back to his screen. Probably looking at his own devastatingly handsome reflection.
I plaster on a smile as I stand, like the good little soldier I am. Because that’s what you do when you’re playing with the big boys. You suck it up, squeeze into your power pantsuit, and find a way to make it happen.
“Have a productive day, sir,” I say sweetly.
You ungrateful, sadistic, heartless bastard, I mentally add, because some days cursing him out in the safety of my own head is the only thing that stops me firingmychair through the window.
CHAPTER 2
Gemma
“What can I dofor you, Emily?” I ask, as she settles into the chair across from me.
Emily from marketing is first in the HR clinic today—aka my office. Every Wednesday morning, we have the “drop-in center” for anyone who needs to vent about their work-related woes.
Kind of like that showEmbarrassing Bodies, only instead of fungal infections and mystery rashes, I get the festering emotional wounds of the finance world. We cover the full spectrum, from the stressed, needy interns to finance guys who think they’re the second coming ofWolf of Wall Street—London edition.
The HR team is swamped, so I’ve taken it upon myself to run the clinic single-handedly. Probably not the best approach especially since I spent yesterday rearranging the damn all-staff meeting at McLaren’s request. We’re desperately trying to recruit more HR staff, but qualified candidates seem to be in short supply these days.
