“Fine. I’ll wait up there.”
I turn on a heel and storm off without another word.
Three
Without question, the “canteen” on the twenty-fifth floor is the jewel in Taskio’s proverbial crown. Designed like a restaurant and used like a meeting space, the canteen—or Scratch Kitchen, as it’s officially known—is a popular watering hole for company-sanctioned socializing. In addition to the barista who’s on site every day from seven until seven, there’s also a salad bar that changes daily, plus an incredibly impressive array of self-service food and drink in the pantry that’s available to us at all times.
To call this area a pantry is an understatement in the extreme—it’s more like an enormous general store. There are rows and rows of packaged treats, all neatly arranged in wicker baskets and organized by type. I pick up my favorite (classic cheddar goldfish) and scroll while I wait, reading through my colleagues’ tales of woe, and firing off a hasty missive to Carrie begging her to tell me who in the hell Naomi’s mat leave replacementis.
I’m typingTHAT IS FUCKING SHOCKINGto a fellow fallen product manager when a chair scrapes against the concrete floor.
I look up and freeze. I should have known.
It is, of course, downstairs guy, who settles into the seatopposite me and crosses his hands on the table between us, giving me a smile so angelic it’s bordering on evil.
From this close I can see all the finer details that failed to register from farther away: his brown eyes, his very straight white teeth, the clear plastic frames that hang from his collar. His position would suggest he’s at least around my age, if not older, but there’s something boyish about him, too, that makes me wonder if he’s actually twenty-one and just the kid brother of theCEO.
It might be the dimples.
Or thecap.
He stares at me expectantly, likewhat are you going to do now?My temper stirs in response, the ignition click on a gas stove flaring to life.
“You’re the department head,” I say flatly.
“Interim department head,” he corrects, stretching his arm out toward me. “Connor Reid.”
I decline to shake his hand. “And you couldn’t have mentioned this downstairs when I specifically came over looking for you?”
“You seemed so certain it wasn’t me,” he says. “Who was I to correct you?”
“How could I have possibly known it was you if you didn’t tellme?”
“They did send around an email about it at the time. That, and my contact details are literally in Naomi’s auto-reply.”
“Fine,” I say. “My mistake.”
“So, Annie,” he continues, like this is all completely routine. “I understand you’re interested in applying for a role in data strategy.”
“I’m not interested inapplyingfor it,” I tell him. “I’ve already been reassigned.”
“You keep saying that,” he agrees. “But HR couldn’t possibly have done that before we’d at least had a chance to speak to all the candidates. So far there are four. And then of course there’s the skills test.”
Carrie warned me, on pain of death, never to reveal how I’d tricked my way into this role, and if this guy attempts to interview me for it, it’s game over.
“I think we might have some crossed wires here,” I say, as diplomatically as I possibly can. “Maybe because HR knew I was the most qualified candidate, they just automatically approvedit.”
“Why would they do that?”
“Because of the layoffs. It’s employment laws, or something,” I say, parroting Carrie’s non-explanation earlier this morning.
“Right.” He sounds unconvinced.
“Of course,” I say, trying to be gracious, “if you’d like to interview me as a formality, I completely understand.”
“A formality,” he repeats.
“Sure.”
