Jo’s shoulders straightened as I spoke, her chin lifting with each word. The bruised expression she’d worn moments earlier began to fade, turning into something steadier.
“She’d never last,” I said, handing her the can. “Not without the expertise of someone like you. What would a pencil-pusher know about an honest day’s labor?”
Her chest swelled, the corners of her mouth twitching as each word landed exactly how it was supposed to.
Jo popped the can open and raised it to her lips, gulping quickly. Jo’s fondness for sodas—especially fruit-flavored ones—was legendary. She went through several cans a day and was often seen with a silver top sticking out of her apron pocket.
“Better?” I asked when she’d swilled half the can.
She breathed deeply, savoring the peachy flavor.
“A bit,” she said, her cheeks returning to their normal color. “Thank you. I needed this.”
“You do the best you can with the tools you have,” I said, softer this time. “Anyway, it’s just another few years until retirement, right?”
“Five,” she said, the corners of her eyes wrinkling pleasantly as she smiled. “Just five more to go.”
“It’ll pass in a flash.”
She gulped down the rest of the can and crushed it in her palm. Her eyes were clear now, less red, and she even looked taller as she pitched the can into the bin.Good.I hated that it had become my job to make people feel better after Burnzilla had torn them apart, but I found that I liked making people smile. Things like this happened more than once a week.
I pressed another cold can into Jo’s hands and she bounded down the stairs with a wave and a smile.
My ass had barely touched the seat when my intercom buzzed.
“My office.”
The icy tone shattered the lingering warmth from Jo’s smile.
Fuck.
I forced myself to pick up my pen and notepad. A breath shuddered through my lungs before I stepped back into the dragon’s den.
Chapter Three
Aiven
Burnzilla.
I’d heard that countless times before, alongside many other derogatory names my employees had the nerve to call me.
Me—the person who’d made Mystic Distillery the success that it was. I’d created jobs for them, made sure they were paid well, and signed their solstice bonus checks.
How fucking ungrateful.
They acted as though they were doingmea favor by showing up to work.
The way they grumbled and groaned about my policies, the workload I’d set, my management style—it grated against my skin.
Worst of all was calling meout of touch.It was infuriating. Clearly their little bird brains couldn’t comprehend that running a business took sacrifice and smarts. Our profit margins were thin. We were being taxed within an inch of our lives. Every decision I made was to keep this damn company afloat so these ungrateful people could keep their jobs.
If anything,theywere out of touch. It was a tragic flaw, but one I would have to live with.
They could only see what they didn’t have. They complained about working late, not caring that I worked longer hours than any of them while trying to balance the sheets and improve forecasts. They always demanded more when therewasn’t any more left to give. It was like working with a bottomless pit of entitlement.
I still paid them and offered them a decent bonus. I still ran the business, but I’d long since stopped expecting gratitude. At the end of the day,thatwas the real mistake—expecting these people to utter a word of thanks for providing them with everything they needed.
Like Ms. Nayak, for example.
