I’m getting too old to be sleeping my way to a contract.
In my defense, I have curtailed my ambition. I swore to myself that after Alma, I would go out on a five-billion-dollar high note, then I was done.
I am a billionaire, a CEO. I don’t need to climb the ladder anymore. My reputation speaks for itself. But the starvingchild in me wants more, wants the surety that I’m going to win, that I’m not leaving anything on the table.
However, I need to acknowledge that I’m at the point where I’m officially too old for this shit. It’s just creepy.
Fitz:I thought you broke up with Alma?
Whitman:Another one bites the dust.
Salinger:Trying to…
Hawthorne:So that’s why she keeps calling me.
Salinger:Ignore her.
McCarthy:But she wuvs you so much she wants to give you eight children, all boys.
Salinger:Hard pass.
Faulkner:Damn, no wedding cake?
Salinger:All of you, fuck off.
Picking up the fork on the tray, I dig it into the casserole. Because that’s what this is. What the hell is Mandy thinking? When has she ever seen me eat a casserole? And is that pasta in there?
Seriously, what the—
“Fuuuck.” The groan comes out before I can stop it.
Immediately, I stuff another bite into my mouth. “Why is this so good?”
Usually I eat for energy, for health, for a balanced diet—not for anything as pedestrian as pleasure.
Mandy did it on purpose. There is no other explanation. She’s fucking with me.
Mandy’s corgi presses its face up against the glass, panting and drooling. I make eye contact with it as I eat the last bite of the casserole.
The last bite? Dammit. Must be from one of those fancy places that don’t give you enough food. I could easily eat three times that amount. In an act of incredible self-control, I do not lick the plate.
It takes an even greater amount of willpower to push the plate aside and reach for the Greek salad with chunks of feta cheese, different from the kale salad Mandy normally gets me. Even that, though, tastes amazing.
I open up an email and skim it, though most of my brainpower is focused on how to acquire the name of the restaurant from Mandy without tipping her off as to what I’m doing. I check the credit card activity. Nothing. She must have paid cash.
The glass door to my office slides open softly.
“And he even works through lunch, though after that little display today, I’m not surprised.” Scarlett. One of the interns.
People are betting good money that she’ll be the top dog by the end of this semester’s internship season. She’s certainly dressed like she wants to be a top investor.
Scarlett’s heels click on the heavy-timber floor as she makes her way to my desk. “I just wanted to introduce myself—”
“Not interested,” I reply, turning back to my salad.
“Not like that,” Scarlett practically purrs.
I’m unmoved. She’s cartoonishly obvious.
