And this is why I hate the suggestion box.
It’s a waste of time and resources.
Beck tilts his head, like he’s seriously considering the idea. “How would that be a benefit?”
Miles grins, showing all his teeth. “I’m glad you asked,” he says, looking and sounding like a goddamn game show host. “Not only would alcohol get the creative juices flowing during brainstorming sessions, it would improve productivity, as the staff wouldn’t have to leave early to get the best seats at happy hour.”
“Please tell me this is a joke.” No way could we have hired such a dumbass.
“I kid you not.” Miles holds up three fingers. “Scout’s honor.”
“You weren’t a Boy Scout,” Beck and I say in unison.
Miles throws up his hands, palms out. “Let’s not get bogged down in the details.” He pauses, looking from me to Beck. “Should I mark that one as a maybe?”
I toss my balled-up napkin at him. It bounces off his shoulder, landing on the table.
He mutters something that sounds a lot likespoilsport, but he’s grinning as he clicks on the next submission. “Now here’s an idea even you can’t hate,” he says, wiggling his brows at me.
This is what I love about my brother. He’s eternally optimistic.
“Anonymous suggests we host the annual team meeting in Hawaii, all expenses paid.”
I’ve got to give him credit. He says it with a straight face, which I’m not sure even Beck could pull off.
“Absolutely not.” I pick up my burger and bite a huge chunk out of it. There’s probably some kind of caveman instinct at work, but I shove it aside as I chew and swallow.
“You could at least pretend to think about it before you shoot the idea down,” Miles deadpans. “And you wonder why people think you’re…harsh.”
Actually, I don’t wonder because I don’t care.
Or at least I didn’t before I found Scarlett’s blasted notes.
“I don’t need time to think it over. It’s absurd.” I mentally tick off all the reasons it’s a bad idea. Sun. Sand. Sex. Talk about a lawsuit waiting to happen. “Do you have any idea what something like that would cost?”
“Money is hardly an issue,” Miles says dismissively. “We have more of it than we know what to do with.” He looks to Beck for support, but Beck merely shrugs, refusing to wade into these murky waters. Can’t say I blame him. We rarely talk about money. We didn’t have shit growing up, and the fact that we have more money than we could spend in a lifetime still feels surreal. Wrong, even. But Miles is right, it’s not about the money. It never was. “The whole point of the virtual suggestion box is to show people that, despite our growth, Triada is the same great employee-focused company it’s always been.”
“Triadaisa great company.” If I didn’t believe that, I would’ve sold out long ago. Sure, things have changed in the last eight years, and maybe we don’t know every employee by name, but how could we? We’re running a multibillion-dollar organization. Surely Miles understands that fact.
He’s the head of HR for chrissake.
He levels his gaze at me, and it’s all challenge. “Prove it.”
I straighten, burger forgotten. “How?”
“Implement the next idea from the suggestion box.”
Fuck. He’s serious. “And what exactly will that prove?”
“It’ll prove that we’re serious about the suggestion box, that it’s not just lip service for a bunch of rigid executives who have no intention of listening to their employees.”
“He’s right,” Beck says. “If we shoot down all the suggestions, people will stop making them.”
Despite their use of the wordwe, it’s clear they meanyou. Like it’s my fault these recommendations belong in a landfill.
“We’re on the cusp of a major economic and cultural shift with the Epos launch. If we want to get to the next level—to become a powerhouse international brand—we can’t afford bad press.” Miles pauses, and memories of the media frenzy that followed my split with Ashley flash through my mind like a bad movie montage. “Especially the kind that comes from overworked, overstressed, over-it-entirely employees.”
I sigh and rake a hand through my hair. “What do you think?” I ask, directing the question to Beck.
