“Hey, I got a hundred new subscribers thanks to that picture. All the boys want to buy my baked goods.”
Morticia smirked. “They're paying to taste your cookies.”
2
Owen
Christmastime—darkness, death, holiday parties. Thanksgiving wasn't even over—I still had leftovers in my fridge—yet here I was at the season's first holiday party. It was for the kickoff ofTechBizmagazine's annual ranking of the best technology companies to work for. The magazine was trying to stir up press for the competition. The rankings were big news in the business world. But why it had to be rolled into a Christmas party was beyond me.
It was a typical generic corporate Christmas party. Here was the spread of cured meats and cheese, there a punch bowl of warm eggnog.
“Do you want a sip?” a woman in a tailored skirt suit asked, slinking up to me.
“No, thank you, Sloane.”
“You know I’m on the selection committee,” she said craftily, drifting her manicured fingernails up my suit jacket sleeve. “Maybe if we have a repeat of our date from a few months ago, I could put in a good word for you.” She licked her lips.
I tamped down a shudder. I'd gone on one date with Sloane six months ago, and she hadn't left me alone since. Thankfully, Evan Harrington, whose hedge fund owned the magazine, stepped up onto the stage.
“They're about to start the presentation,” Sloane said, turning to leave but not before her hand brushed dangerously close to my belt buckle.
“You sure you don't want to give her another shot?” Walker, my chief operations officer joked, nudging me as he returned from the snack table. “You're getting older.”
“I’m not that old,” I hissed as Evan clinked his glass for our attention.
“Your younger brother Jack is going to be engaged any day now,” Walker whispered back. He was a Svensson. There was an excessive number of them, and they were all brothers—or half brothers in some instances—and they were all obnoxious, from the smallest, cutest little boys to the biggest, meanest Svenssons, who currently had a sizable portion of my company by the balls. Greg and Hunter Svensson had originally invested in my company and owned a large percentage of it. I tried to give them a wide berth.
“At the very least, she could give Quantum Cyber good marks in the contest,” Walker said out of the side of his mouth. “Greg's not happy with the recruiting numbers. He and Hunter are afraid we're going to lose our edge.”
“We're not losing our edge,” I hissed back. A server came around with desserts. I waved her away. I was not a sweets person. Walker took two of the mini donuts covered with chocolate frosting and red and green sprinkles.
“Thank you all for coming,” Evan said into the microphone. “We like to think theTechBizlist of the best places to work in the tech industry makes or breaks companies. Recruitment season for this year's graduates is starting in a couple of months. Ninety-nine percent of grads say that they use our detailed write-up and ranking system to decide which companies to accept an offer from or to even bother applying to. It's also used when smaller start-ups decide to sell. So put your best foot forward! I hear Holbrook Enterprises is the company to beat!”
We applauded politely as Walker and I glared over at the Holbrooks in the corner. Holbrook Enterprises had been at the top of the list the last two years, while my company had ranked tenth. Tenth!
“You'd think paying people a shit ton of money would be enough, but you would be wrong,” I said, glowering.
“People want atmosphere and a nice place to work,” Walker said, grabbing a mini cupcake off a tray. “They want fun activities, Christmas parties, nice food, and a CEO they feel like they could have a beer with.” I did not score well on any of those counts.
“You're just very frosty, Owen, get it? Because Frost is your last name?” Walker said, elbowing me in the ribs. See what I said about Svenssons? Obnoxious.
I spent the rest of the party pretending to be nice to my competitors and avoiding Sloane.
“Man, you go on one date with a woman in this city and it's like you agreed to marry her,” I complained to Walker under my breath.
“It's the population disparity. There are more women than men who are young professionals. It's flipped in San Francisco. Women are very territorial in Manhattan,” Grant Holbrook said loudly, swaggering over, arm around his wife, Kate. She looked up at him in bemusement then hugged me and Walker.
“Merry Christmas!”
Grant’s cousin Carter yawned beside him. “This party is boring. Holbrook Enterprises has a bomb-ass Christmas party planned. My wife—”
“You two literally are not even engaged,” Grant interjected.
“If I say it out loud, one day it will be true,” Carter said sagely. “She's got a ton of Christmas-themed cocktails planned.”
“You guys shouldn't even bother applying,” Grant said to me in that casual asshole way the Holbrooks had. “I have a Christmas wish list of companies I want to buy, and I think Santa’s going to bring me everything I want.”
*
