Her voice rings clear on the line as Ben passes me, taking my place in the elevator. He adjusts his messenger bag and waggles his eyebrows. Already sensing the messages pinging through the group chat I’m not in, and half regretting taking myself out, Ibalance the tray of green juice on my arm so I can flip off the doors as they close him inside.
“Yes, big promotion, very busy. Sorry to say you’ll be left to fend for yourselves with Bud the cardshark.”
I hang my jacket on the back of my chair and rub my temple as I contemplate how to make Kara pay for her giveaway. I had good reasons for not telling Nan about Noah and his more handsome qualities. Nan, god love her, has a bad habit of trying to pair me off with every eligible man or woman she comes across. Last month she slipped her nail tech’s number into my bag, and while Naomi and I did have a fun night that bled into the morning, not even the four orgasms she gave me would be enough for me to call her again. I barely do serial dates and I don’t do relationships.Ever. Not that I will be doing any of those things with Noah.
“We’ll handle Bud.” Nan chuckles. “You take care tonight, and bring us a full update tomorrow. We old folk could use the stories.”
A soft laugh escapes as I picture Nan and her friends gathered round to hear about marketing strategies and corporate relations—though I know full well that isn’t what she means.
“Tell Kara to keep my stories to herself, or I’ll share some of hers. I know for a fact there’s a woman-shaped secret she’s been keeping from you.”
Nan laughs again. “Have a good night, Lottie.”
“You too, Nan.”
Though it’s only a little after three, most of the office has cleared out. Corporate hasn’t officially adopted a four day work week, but most of us balance our hours so we can have an early weekend. It’s one of the perks of working at a start-up; our pay might be considered chump change, but who needs money when you have a fully stocked snack bar and three day weekends? Aslong as I don’t think too long or hard about the money padding corporate pockets, it’s alright. Plus, it sure as hell beats the bikini barista coffee stand I worked before this.
Adjusting the drink carrier and my notepad in one arm, I bite down on my favorite pen and settle my laptop in the other before crossing the floor to Noah’s frosted glass door. It’s propped open, and when I round into his office, I’m greeted by stress personified. Noah is pacing, the conversation he’s having on his cellphone clearly dominated by the other person. His desk is covered with open files and scattered papers. It’s so unlike his neat, clean-line normal. The crease in his brow softens, only just, when he sees me.
“I can’t either,” he says into the phone, his arm sweeping out to invite me to take a seat. He sounds more than frustrated, almost angry. “I assure you, we are doing—yes. Of course.”
Clearing off one corner of the desk, I unload my arms and swivel one of the chairs around to set up my work station. Whatever has Noah spooked about this account sounds serious. I place his green juice in front of his keyboard, and curl my right leg underneath the left.
Taking my own juice, I remove the torn straw cover and sip. Swallowing the glorified algae through an already soggy paper straw is near impossible. The earthy tang, tasting vaguely of salty kale, runs bitter over my tongue and I gulp hard, hoping it stays down. Goddamnthat’s gross. Frowning, I hold the cup up and swirl it, wondering if all the shit floating in the bottom is the problem or if it’s all this terrible.
“I hope ourGreen Monstershot goes down easier than that,” Noah says.
My cheeks burn with the awareness of him watching my reaction, and I swirl the drink again while regaining my composure. The ice rattles in a way that invites another sip, butmy taste buds shrivel at the thought of more sewer-moss hued beverage.
“These always look so refreshing, but I’ve maybe had one that didn’t taste like ass.” My eyes grow wide, and I cough. “Sorry. I shouldn’t say that sort of thing in front of my boss. Jesus Christ.”
Noah laughs as he sinks into his chair. “I’d rather you be honest, even if that means hearing about how your juice”—he pauses—“tastes like ass.”
I snort a laugh and mindlessly bring the straw to my lips, focusing every iota of attention on trying not to think about the way ‘ass’ sounded on his lips. “Ack!”
Noah, clearly still amused but ready to get to business, shakes his head and pulls a file over in front of him. “Thank you for staying late. I know it’s asking a lot, but be sure to log these hours on the overtime tracker, and I’ll ensure you're paid the correct rate.”
One of the benefits of being an hourly employee at a start-up is the potential for overtime pay; nothing I do is important enough to work more than my allotted hours, but knowing the buffer is there if I need it, is nice.
“It’s fine. I don’t think I hit overtime this week.”
“Still, it was a last minute change, and you should be compensated for it.”
I open my mouth to argue I don’t need his charity, but he cuts me off.
“I insist.”
I bite the inside of my cheek to keep from disagreeing again. It doesn’t seem worth the effort and I suppose logging some extra hours is another step in the right direction for buying out the lease on the deserted diner. Besides, it is a perfectly acceptable work accommodation; it’s not a hand out, nor is it something he wouldn’t do for someone else.
“Thank you. Now, what’s happening with Scented Acres?”
Noah straightens and lets out a long, defeated sigh. “Right. Apparently one of our founders had a bit of a wild weekend on a friend’s yacht, and I’m worried about Tom, Scented Acres’ owner. He’s a good, family man, and I fear this slip is bad for us.”
The teeth marks on the inside of my cheek are barely enough to suppress the eye roll. Fucking rich frat boys.
“Must’ve been one hell of a weekend.”
“Indeed,” he says, sliding a tabloid over to me.
