It’s not wrong. But I’m not about to let a judgmental chair make the rules around here.
“Well then,” I announce to the empty room, spinning slowly, my feet dangling far above the ground because Bastian is apparently several miles taller than I am. “Let’s see what His Royal Haleness keeps in his drawers.”
The first drawer is office supplies. Pens grouped by color, sticky notes in graduated sizes, paper clips that have never once been nervously bent out of shape. Boring.
The second drawer holds enough protein bars to last Bastian the apocalypse. Even more boring.
The third drawer is locked.
Interesting.
But it doesn’t show any signs of yielding when I tug on it, so I set aside that mystery for the time being. Instead, I scoot-‘n’-roll over to his filing cabinet and start plucking out folders at random. Project Olympus dominates everything—architectural plans, vendor contracts, investor this and financier that. Some ofit I’ve seen and some of it is banal enough to make my eyeballs bleed.
But there are other files, too. Older ones. I find the original business plan for Hale Hospitality, written in what must be Bastian’s hand from fifteen years ago. The margins are filled with notes, calculations, scribblings, doodles of what appears to be a bank robbery. Desperate math from a stubborn man trying to make impossible numbers work.
Initial investment needed: $50,000
Current assets: $3,844
??? = Figure it thefuckout
I’m so absorbed in the files that I don’t hear the elevator or the footsteps in the hallway. Don’t notice anything until the door opens and Bastian Hale walks in, looking like he just stepped out of a completely different life.
His sleeves are rolled up to his elbows, exposing forearms marked with old burn scars and what might be the edge of a tattoo. His usually perfect hair is mussed, falling across his forehead in a way that makes him look younger, wilder, and, in the interest of full transparency, even hotter. He smells like kitchen smoke, lemon oil, and expensive cologne. My brain sort of sputters for a second, like the igniter on a gas trying to get the fire going.
He stops dead when he sees me in his chair. His eyes track over the papers spread across his desk, the various drawers hanging wide open.
“Making yourself at home, I see.”
I force myself to give him a saucy smile. “Early bird gets the corner office, right?”
He starts to load up a scowl on his face, just like I’d expect, but he sort of stops halfway there, like he’s too tired to commit fully to his usual bit. “Those are confidential documents, you know.”
“Then it’s a good thing I signed an NDA when I got hired, or else you’d have to burn me at the stake.” I tap the file in front of me. “Your handwriting was terrible in 2010, by the way. Did you ever figure out that forty-six-thousand-dollar gap?”
He moves into the room slowly, like he’s approaching a wild animal that might bolt. Or bite. Or both. And you know what? Maybe I will. To all of the above.
“I sold my car and my watch, and took out three credit cards I had no business qualifying for.”
“Ballsy.”
“Yeah, well, it’s easy to be that when you have no other options.” He stops at the edge of his desk, looking down at me in his chair. “Are you going to give me my seat back, or is this part of your negotiation strategy?”
“Depends.” I steeple my fingers together like an evil mastermind. “Is it working?”
The corner of his mouth pulses—almost a laugh—before he turns away. He pulls a folder from his saddle bag and drops it on the desk between us. “As discussed.”
I don’t reach for it immediately. Instead, I stand slowly, making him step back to give me space. We’re too close now, close enough that I can see he’s exhausted beneath whatever energyhe’s running on. I look down and notice a constellation of grease burns on the back of his knuckles. They look fresh, still oozing.
“You cooked tonight?”
“How did you—” He stops, probably realizing it’s obvious. He smells like a seared duck, after all. “There was an emergency at Quail’s Egg. I handled it.”
“What was it like? Did you still remember which end of the knife is the pointy one?”
“Yeah. It’s the end you point at insubordinate employees.”
It’s my turn to quickly kill a grin before he can see it. “First off, that sounded like a threat to me, which would be both rude and illegal,” I say. “And also, I quit, remember? So I’m not your employee anymore. Not yet. Not until I sign.”
