Could all come in?Was attendance optional?
Dorothy knows damn well that there’s no time for this nonsense. We’ve got to locate an alleged data breach and address all compromises before her investor meeting next month. I’ve got three weeks—exactly twenty-one days—to ensure that any vulnerabilities are taken care of. Frankly, if these people had any idea just how iffy their positions are, not a single one of them would be smiling right now.
A very tall, big-boned man wearing shorts, knee socks, and suspenders and sporting the biggest red beard I’ve ever seen comes over and palms a swath of cookies from the platter, easily reducing its weight by a third. He then proceeds to sit back down, chomping on them—two at a time—never once taking his lens-enlarged gaze from mine.
The misgivings I’d felt at taking on this job quadruple, and that muscle in my jaw goes tight again. What have I signed myself up for?
Meanwhile, Dorothy side hugs every person who comes to help themselves to a cookie.
“So, yes, this is Grant, my lovelies!” She’s still talking, although nobody appears to be listening. “An expert in all things finance, executive management, and human resources, including…”
“Did you put pot in these? I swear there’s weed in this one.”
I turn to glare at whoever said that. It’s unclear, though it’s possibly one of the three almost identical, twentysomething white men slouching against the wall in hoodies and beanies.
My god, who are these people? They’re like locusts. Or toddlers.
“I can do CBD,” someone responds. “But THC gets to me. Hope it’s not THC.”
“Good morning,” I say with all the authority I possess.
“There’s no THC,” the source, origin, and reason for this cookie mayhem replies, just sitting there with her pale, freckled skin and those clear blue eyes. Rae Jensen is smiling as if this sugarcoated chaos is a good thing.
How can she look so calm when she created this mess by bringing possibly spiked snacks to the first in-person meeting these people have had in years?
It’s completely unhinged. All of it. My insides are close to boiling.
No wonder Dorothy needs me. With this killer bunny masquerading as human resources manager, I’m shocked there haven’t been issues before now.
“No cookies,” I say from my spot in the center of the circle. Firm, but reasonable.
They all freeze, cheeks bulging like chipmunks, and stare up at me.
“Oh,” Dorothy starts, “I don’t think we need to take away their—”
From out of the blue, Rae Jensen’s cheery voice cuts through the hubbub. “Mr. Bowman is right.” Color flies high on her softly rounded cheeks. “We should start the meeting.”
Finally, a little rationality. That it happens to come from the one who sowed the chaos doesn’t matter at this moment.
“Are you saying we can’t eat at work?” asks a woman in a T-shirt featuring Pedro Pascal and the wordZADDYin all caps. She’s clearly gearing up for a fight. “Because that’s against the law. Right, Rae?”
“Refusing food breaks is against the law,” Rae replies. “However—”
“You can eat the cookies after the meeting,” I respond, my tone reasonable.
“We open meetings with cookies and coffee. That’s how we do it at Sugar.” This from Samantha, who is apparently taking a stand now that she’s demolished her pile of treats.
All around, teeth crunch on baked goods while the staff watches me with the wide-eyed attention of a movie-theater audience eagerly awaiting the next zany twist.
My jaw tightens, my teeth grinding together.
“Well, I’m here to fix things, so starting today, we close meetings with cookies. Start with business, end with pleasure.”
At those words, Rae Jensen’s cheeks turn even ruddier. I watch, unable to tear my eyes from the bright, hot-looking red that mottles her neck before conquering her ample, if modestly covered, décolleté. Her eyes narrow as she folds her arms across a chest I recently watched her fondle while calling her avery good girl.
Dammit. I won’t go there.
“It’s tradition” comes a low voice from the group of entitled young clones in the far corner.
