Her words chip away at my brain with maddening persistence. I shouldn’t care what she thinks. I know it on a cerebral level, but after last year’s bad press, her ludicrous, ill-informed assessment is infuriating.
Salt on an open fucking wound.
“So?” Beck spears a piece of lettuce with his plastic fork. “Are you going to do it?”
My gaze slides from Miles to Beck and back again. It won’t be easy—I’m already spread thin with the Epos launch—but I’m no quitter. With a little time and a plan of attack, I can do this. And who better to help plan a Valentine’s social than Miles’s snarky, highly organized, whip-smart assistant?
“I’ll do it on one condition.” A slow grin curves my lips. “I want Scarlett to help.”
Chapter Seven
Scarlett
I slip into the executive suite an hour early with a massive chai latte and a plan. It’s Friday morning and the office is quiet, only the hum of white noise filling the air. No surprise there. Jonathan, the other assistant with whom I share the reception area, never comes in early. Why would he when Beck rarely makes an appearance and never gives him enough work to keep busy?
Not that I envy his light workload. I’d be bored to tears in his shoes, reading gossip blogs and watching Netflix all day.
There should be three of us, but since Nick can’t keep an assistant for more than four weeks—which, according to Jonathan, is the current record—one desk is currently unoccupied.
The door to Nick’s office is closed, and with any luck, it’ll stay that way.
At least until eight a.m. when my meeting notes land in his inbox. If he comes out sooner, I have a plan: don’t make eye contact. Yes, it’s a shitty plan, but it’s a work in progress, just like me. I’m making it up as I go.
Which is probably why it’s a cluster.
Whatever. The odds of him leaving his desk are slim. The man works around the clock. Always the first to arrive and the last to leave. It’s like he doesn’t even have a life outside Triada.
Is it any wonder he’s miserable?
No, no it is not. But that’s hardly my problem.
Right now, my priority is to smooth things over with him—assuming that’s even possible—before he reports my insubordination to Miles.
Does he strike you as the forgiving type?
Shit. I am so screwed. This plan will never work.
Goodbye job. Goodbye capstone project.
Maybe I can tell Miles I was possessed? Like in that movie where parasitic aliens control all the high-school teachers and try to spread their creepy species by infecting the students.
Right. Totes believable, Scarlett.
I slide into my chair and power up my laptop. It should only take a few minutes to clean up my notes, leaving plenty of time to get a head start on the day’s to-do list.
At least if Miles fires me, I’ll be caught up before I go.
While I’m waiting for the file to load, I take a quick peek at his calendar. He has back-to-back meetings. A spark of hope ignites in my chest.
Maybe he won’t even have time to fire me today.
The file opens, and I quickly remove my personal notes, doing a slow read-through to ensure I’ve scrubbed all the unfortunate nicknames from the document. Pretty sure Nick would have a coronary if he saw them.
Especially the part about him.
It’s petty and immature, but honestly who could blame me? Those meetings are torture. If it weren’t for the snarky—and accurate—comments written in the margins, I’d lose my mind. Die of boredom. The notes keep me focused, fully attuned to the conversation when I’d otherwise nod off, because the executive team, for all their brilliance, is completely out of touch.
Once I’ve polished the notes, I press save and open my email.
