Okay, that might be a little optimistic considering his stance on Valentine’s Day, but this is supposed to be a fun project, and by God we are going to enjoy it, even if I have to staple a paper heart to his forehead and stuff his pockets with chocolate.
I spent hours researching party ideas and vendors—hours I should have spent working on my capstone project. But once I started, I couldn’t stop. Especially since, despite his initial shock at the catering estimate, Nick gave me a fair budget to work with.
He was right about one thing. This eventisgoing to be a smashing success.
I take a deep breath and click on the email.
Scarlett,
Please see the attached file for my feedback.
Nick Hart
CEO, CFO Triada Tech
That’s it? That’s all he wrote? Nogood joborI appreciate your hard workor evenI hate truffles, let’s get chocolate bars instead?
I double-click the attachment. It loads instantly, but it takes my brain a moment to process what I’m seeing.
What the hell?
The file is bathed in red—and not in a festive holiday kind of way. Nick massacred my ideas, and from the looks of it, he had a damn good time doing it. Nearly every line is slashed with red ink, and there are comments scrawled in the margin in sharp, tiny print.
So much for almost human.
Anger pools low in my belly, burning white-hot as it radiates out to my limbs.
I push my chair back and stand. To do what, I have no idea, but fury must be written on my face because Jonathan takes one look at me and spins his chair in the other direction. I press a button on the keyboard, and the shared printer whirs to life.
Deep, calming breaths.
Fuck deep calming breaths and the email they rode in on.
Hands shaking, I grab my pages off the printer and march into Nick’s office, bypassing his new admin without a word. He’s seated behind his desk, head down, working on his tablet. Probably busy trashing someone else’s work. I dart a glance at the bookshelf behind him. It’s lined with leadership books. According to Jonathan, they were gifts from the temp agency, a show of appreciation for their best client.
More like the worst.
Talk about the backhanded compliment of gift giving. I’ll bet he hasn’t cracked a single one open. Which explainssomuch.
“We need to talk.” At the sound of my voice, he looks up in surprise, but he doesn’t get a word out before I push the door shut and thrust the sheaf of papers at him.
“What’s this?” he asks, making no move to take them.
“You honestly don’t recognize your own email?” I plant a hand on my hip. “I thought for sure all the red ink would be a dead giveaway.”
He grins, completely oblivious to my sarcasm. It’s a good look for him and my traitorous little heart flutters at the sight, because when has Nick Hart ever grinned at me before? “Why would you print an email? It defeats the entire purpose of paperless communication.”
It’s a joke. I know it in my bones, but I am so not in the mood. How is it possible this man can read a boardroom like a neon sign, but he’s clueless when it comes to one-on-one human interaction?
“I thought it would be a nice reference tool. You know, so I didn’t leave anything out by mistake.” I glance down at the first page, skimming his comments. “Let’s see. Where should we start?”
“Start?” he echoes, finally picking up my tone.
Give the man a cookie.
“Conversation hearts are for kindergarteners, not grown adults. This is a needless expense,” I read, doing my best imitation of the stuck-up suit. “Oh, and how about this little gem?” I shoot him a scathing look. “Photo booths are better suited to carnivals than corporate events.”
He sighs and leans back in his chair. “I’m sensing you’re upset.”
