Alex Harrison’s eyes skate toward Brijesh and me. When he sees me, he does a double take, his expression warming with familiarity. He starts toward us both, but his gaze stays focused on me.
“Simba.”
“It’s Casey,” I barely manage. “Maitland.”
Amused, he sticks out a palm. “It’s a pleasure to officially meet you. I’m Alex Harrison, the new project manager forBite the Hand.” His voice is velvet with tiny scratches, like the morning after a concert or a swallow of whiskey.
I press my palm against his, and my shaking disappears, engulfed by his strong grip. I try to imagine I’m capable of the kinetic transfer of pain. Mine to him. The way I feel right now, just so he’d know. Just to see if he’d care.
As we lock eyes, and he keeps smiling with private amusement, and I try not to start crying or screaming, I realize I don’t know what to be more furious about.
That the prince of nepotism got the job I wanted, or that Little Cooper dangled a transfer to London in front of me to keep me quiet about it.
Four weeks later, the video premieres onFood Baby’s YouTube channel. And the comments section sets the course for…
Well. For everything.
Dustin Makes Healthed-Up Hot Chicken, but Don’t Call It Nashville-Style
The girl who appears at 18:20. A fucking dream.
How do I get Analyst Casey in my subscription queue?
Y’all think she’s dating one of them?
Where has the video team been hiding that girl!
OMG! Casey! We went to elementary school together <3
I’d watch a vlog of her just crunching numbers
You can analyze me, babe
When you’ve got a date with a pro chef at ten and a rendezvous with the CFO at eleven
CHAPTER FOUR
Besides Brijesh and Miriam, my only other friend in New York is Sasha Nicholson. Sasha is five eleven—making her a whopping six inches taller than me—with balmy deep-brown skin that belongs in a CoverGirl commercial, Met Gala–ready Afro-teased hair, and a truly comedic number of four-inch stilettos in her closet that should be organized on an episode ofThe Home Edit.The shoe addiction comes from her mom, but her height comes from her dad: NBA Hall of Famer Devon Nicholson.
(I’m embarrassed to admit this, but even after four years of living with Sasha in college, plus a handful of times watching her play for the women’s team on campus, I still know less about basketball than a thespian.)
At the University of Tennessee, Sasha and I got randomly assigned as roommates in the honors dorm our first year. We liked each other enough to get an off-campus apartment together after that, but between her basketball obligations, myriad out-of-town boyfriends, and a tight-knit family based out of Chicago, I cancount on two hands the number of weekends she was around during college. Even now that we both live in New York, I still wouldn’t call us close. I’d call us comfortable.
Comfortable enough that when she calls in a favor, I’m obligated to say yes. Today’s favor includes being Sasha’s plus-one to her work function: a Yankees season-closing happy hour on a rooftop bar in Chelsea.
(I also know less aboutbaseball than a thespian, but maybe I’m underselling the sports knowledge of thespians.)
The venue is gorgeous, with golden-hour evening sunlight and a warm, September wind streaming through the open doors between a balcony facing the river and the U-shaped bar inside. I’m holding a frosty pisco sour and headed back to where I last saw Sasha when I realize she’s standing with Dougie Dawson.
My CEO.
The man’s hair is thin and graying, his face dimpled in a purplish hue from years of sun damage. Sasha is standing farther away from him than she’d likely stand from anyone else solely because of the size of Dougie’s protruding belly. I’ve never seen him up close like this, only in passing on days he makes it into his office. Which is not all that often.
But I remember in perfect detail the day he took over. The whole Finance department got pulled into the boardroom, and Dougie gave a spiel abouthow thankful he was to be working with such a dedicated teamandhow expansive his vision was for LC’s future.To me, he’d looked exactly like our old CEO. Read: thrilled with his own existence.
Half of Sasha’s job description is schmoozing rich people, so I take an educated guess and decide Dougie must be a Yankees season ticket holder with a luxury suite.
I approach the two of them, not sure what to do, how to act. Should I introduce myself? Should I pretend there’s no connection?Should I point out the sunspot on his neck in case he’d like to run it by his dermatologist?
