He snatches it from my hand and tears it open, then glares at the paper. “You didn’t fake this, did you?”
I roll my eyes. “Feel free to call them and ask.”
He doesn’t, though. He crumples the paper and throws it into the trash can by his desk. From the tic in his chin, I guess he’s upset I accomplished all my tasks successfully.Heh-heh-heh.
He leans back, resting a hip against the edge of his desk. “You need to create seven memos before you go home. It’s in the assistant’s folder under my name in the intranet.”
Finally, a reasonable request. Maybe he’s given up for the moment after the two childish, bullshit assignments.
He grabs a scone, then waves me off. “Take the boxes and hand them out to the team.”
As I follow his instructions, I realize I bought just enough for everyone but me. Wow. What a dick move. It’s petty, but just pointed enough to make me feel excluded, especially as the area is replete with the scent of baked yummies.
Amy glances at my empty hands. “Wanna split this croissant?”
“No, thank you.” I smile. “I’m not really hungry.” In fact, I’m dying for a bite because I didn’t have breakfast. But for all I know, Grant could be spying on me and do something asshole-worthy if I eat anything. Like make me run a mile, just because.
“It’s actually too big for me, and I normally throw out about half,” she says. “I’d hate to do that.” She tears it down the middle and offers half with a warm smile.
“In that case, thanks.” I take it and start nibbling.
“And next time, grab one for yourself,” Amy says.
“And have Grant have an apoplectic fit?”
She frowns. “He won’t notice.”
“He will.” He’s out to get me. I can feel in in my bones.
She shrugs. “Just tell him Amy said it was fine.”
“Isn’t he your boss?” Even if he hasn’t told her to get on her knees and call him “sir,” he probably treats her like dirt.
“Yeah, but he won’t say anything. He’s been behind since Renée quit. Give him a few days, and he’ll get caught up, and things will be fantastic.” Amy grins reassuringly.
I smile back, but there’s absolutely nothing that could make what’s between me and Grant “fantastic.”
And Grant makes sure my prediction comes true. He dumps a mountain of to-dos on me, and I work through lunch to get them finished.
“I don’t like the summary section on the memo,” he says, glancing at the executive memo I drafted.
“What about it is an issue?” I ask calmly, since he might have legitimate objections to my work.
“Everything.” He smiles. “Perhaps you should consider redoing it.”
I see. I smile back, while fantasizing about punching his face until his nose is bloody. “Sure.”
Every memo is rejected with some vague notes of dissatisfaction. He never says thanks and never says he’s satisfied.
On my fourth revision, he sighs. “Guess this is the best I can expect. Tragic.”
It’s really hard to smile when you’re grinding your teeth, but I manage.
“I should’ve told Emmett I preferred someone with a degree in English or something.”
The reminder of what I gave up sucker-punches me. I inhale sharply, praying he doesn’t notice, but a satisfied look appears on his face.
Asshole.
