Not that it matters. I’ve been sending out my résumé for the past three months like I’m already unemployed. I’ve finally made it to the third interview round at one firm—fingers crossed they toss me a lifeline (or a job offer) before I’m fired. If I hand in my resignation letter, no one wins the pool.
Petty? Perhaps.
“I should go,” I say, not wanting to keep our resident grouch, our Grinch of a boss, waiting so his foul mood gets even worse. He doesn’t seem to have much in the way of people or managerial skills.
As I make my way to Mr. Barrington’s office, I run over a list of what I’ve done lately. I finished a report of my clients’ accounts. I reviewed Sarah’s numbers for the fourth quarter. I also sent every client of the firm—not just mine—a Christmas card, even if my fellow certified financial planners thought it was a waste of time. I’ve worked hard to ensure I have the lowest client turnover of anyone at the firm. Not that Mr. Barrington seems to care about that. Still, nothing sticks out for him wanting to see me…
Or hating me so much.
As usual, his door is closed when I arrive, so I knock twice on the wood.
“Come in,” a gruff voice says from within. Not exactly a holiday greeting.
I open the door and step into Mr. Barrington’s office to find him at his desk, typing. He doesn’t look up. Great, he must be pretending I’m invisible again. That’s what he does whenever I’m around.
I don’t want to find anything likable about Mr. John Barrington. My boss occupies the realm of men whom you can’t help but notice: smoldering good looks, dark eyes that seem to swallow the light whole, and those long thick eyelashes that could make any woman jealous, including me. His jawline is chiseled and goes with his nose so well. He’s the kind of guy who could effortlessly trade his briefcase for a modeling contract if he ever got bored with helping people invest their money and making my life difficult.
I shake my head internally, casting off the rogue thoughts. I need to pay attention.
I sit, noticing the snow falling outside the window behind him, forcing myself not to tap my toe. I miss Mr. Patella—bless his heart—who was our last boss, even though he seemed to have emerged from a time capsule filled with mothballs and wide ties.Sure, he repeated the same tired advice every week, but at least he mentored me. Now, I’m left to contemplate my job security every day, and I’ve gone from loving my job to hating coming in each morning. I really hope I find a new position soon.
My impatience strums at my nerves, and I resort to counting. By the time I reach thirty, I feel like an uninvited guest, except he’s the one who requested my presence.
I clear my throat, which sounds much too loud in the quiet room. “You asked to see me, Mr. Barrington.”
His eyes flick up for the briefest second, locking onto my Christmas sweater and then my faded jeans. Oh, perfect. Just what I need—his judgment about my wardrobe choice. Perhaps I should have gone for something more “deck-the-halls” and less “holiday hobo,” but an email declared today was casual dress. His tailored suit, complete with a striped candy cane tie, says otherwise. At least the tie has a holiday vibe, even if he doesn’t.
And he doesn’t.
“I noticed you were the first one in the building this morning,” he says, his tone flat. It’s infuriating how he manages to look like he just stepped out of a hair commercial—every strand perfectly in place, like he sees a hairstylist or barber every morning. No human should ever look that polished, especially at work, in the middle of a cold freeze and what appears to be an impending snowstorm. “Are you behind on your work?”
What a jerk. Why does he always assume the worst of me?
“No, actually, I’m ahead.” I fight the urge to roll my eyes, even though he deserves it. “I came in early because I live on the west side.”
“The west side?”
“Yeah. The electricity went out on the west side of town in the middle of the night. No heat, no lights, no anything since three this morning.”
He narrows his eyes slightly. Is that…concern? No, it can’t be. He’s just thinking about my productivity. Still, I can’t shake the feeling something softer hides behind his scowl.
What am I thinking? There’s nothing soft about him.
He continues to stare at me, appearing slightly dazed, which means he must be from the east side, the land of expansive lawns and fancy coffee shops, where the power is always on. They probably have heated driveways and underground cathedrals dedicated to their generators.
My voice drips with mock drama. So sue me. “I came in early because, let’s be honest, being surrounded by ice cubes while under every single blanket and towel I own isn’t my idea of a good time.”
His jaw tightens, and I can’t help but think that, under different circumstances, he really could be a model. Though he’d probably need to take lessons in how to smile. His perpetual “I just bit into a lemon” expression wouldn’t translate well in photographs.
“I hope that’s okay?” I add, laughing nervously. “I mean, it was so cold inside I could see my breath.”
“It’s fine.” He doesn’t sound fine. In fact, he sounds upset.
Uh-oh. Anxiety curls my stomach into pretzel knots. If I lose my job today, the paycheck drought will stretch into the new year. Talk about a holiday crisis.
“When I got here, I hunkered down in my office. I only turned on my office light and the one in the break room. Oh, and I whipped up a steaming pot of coffee because without a cup, my brain would resemble a foggy swamp, and I needed something to warm me up from the inside. I didn’t even crank up the thermostat.”
Though, I thought about it—more than once.
