I peer down.Wants to revisit something already decided on ages ago.
Bingo.
“Anthony,” I interrupt gently, “we already worked through that while you were on vacation, and branding has already reviewed. We really can’t delay things because—”
“I insist that we should. The imagery is not evocative enough. The woman is looking down instead of up. She’s holding a pencil. Does it not convey—”
I need my raise. He is not doing this to me. Not with the finish line fast approaching.
“No, I’m sorry, but I really insist that we move on. We circulated this for comment three weeks ago. The regions have weighed in. You were on vacation, but we received approval from Carla, who you had filling in for you. We’re on a tight deadline, and nice-to-haves like revisiting settled to-do list items after one person returns from vacation are unfortunately not something we can accommodate. Now, moving to the next agenda item, unless there’s any objection?”
I don’t give anyone time to object, because I’m positive Anthony would. I railroad my way to the next topic, feeling like I could karate chop my desk in half from the adrenaline rush.
Rochelle comes by my desk, eyes super round with disbelief, after the call ends. “You. Were. Amazing. I was multitasking, but I caught that verbal ass-beating. Good for you!”
I sit back in my chair and feel like I’m showing every tooth in my mouth. “Thank you! Now get me that raise. Ha.”
Rochelle’s expression flickers, probably from shock at my direct demand—even if itissoftened by a laugh. “Yep, we’re on our way to trying for it!”
What started as a shit day actually ends up being pretty productive and great. I shut down Anthony’s nonsense, got as close to demanding a raise as my people-pleasing heart could without combusting, and secured budget approvals to run our first global campaign through the framework we’ve been developing. And my idea to build the framework in tandem with a real test campaign means that we’ll be ready to roll on a launch way sooner than management was expecting. I’m feeling myself as I open my front door.
Jack is already home when I get there, arranging two-by-fours along the dividing line between our two apartments. The wall is gone, and the area has been demoed, sanded, and cleaned to the point where The Hole feels like a memory—albeit one that still has my muscles aching.
He glances up at me, then sits back on his haunches, surveying me. I look my fill right back. He looks rakish. Handsome, in a rumpled, five-o’clock-shadow kind of way. He istotallya dark-haired young Harrison Ford right now. This version of Jack bears an uncanny similarity to the way I first imagined the Pirate Duke, a connection I choose not to examine too closely.
“What’s different?” he says. “You look…excited?”
I have to purse my lips to keep the force of my “fuck yeah!” feelings in check, but they cannot be contained. With Jack, they don’t have to be. He knows I’m extra. Plus, it’s not every day I put Anthony in his place. I’m not doing the usual second-guessing thing, where I agonize after trying to assert myself. I’m forcing myself to ignore the peacemaking harpy in my brain. “What’s different is that I demanded the damn chicken sandwich, no mayo. Figuratively.”
His expression is a tangle of confusion and amusement as he stands and towels the dust off his hands. “Amazing. What exactly is a figurative chicken sandwich?”
“I stood up for myself! At work!” I explain about Anthony. Jack laughs at my homemade bingo card and frowns as I recount Anthony’s interruptions.
“Oh, you’ll appreciate this one: ‘Penny, we know you have the best of intentions. It’s just that your intentions are not a match for your knowledge in this arena.’”
“Dick,” Jack murmurs as he approaches.
I stare up at him and nod. “And he says it in a soft voice. He’s like a nastyT. rexdressed up as a friendly brontosaurus. But I finally shut. Him. Down. BOOM!” I laugh out loud, and seized with a sudden urge, I throw my arms around Jack’s neck and give him a joyful hug.
I hear him chuckle in my ear as he hugs me back before swinging me around. “Proud of you. How’s that chicken sandwich taste?”
“Incredible.” I smile up at him, and he sets me down, our bodies sliding against each other as he slowly releases me. His gray eyes darken. The vibe in the room shifts immediately. Dongward.
I clear my throat and brush an awkward hand on his shoulder, removing dust that doesn’t exist. “Back to work!” I crow, turning on my heels with eyes as big as Carmine’s famous meatballs. “I’m gonna change. Be out in a second.”
I take way too long to change, taking the time to do important things, such as lying on my bed and staring at the ceiling, and mouthingHe’s so fucking hot. UGHto myself in my mirror.
When I emerge, Jack is seated on one of my kitchen stools, looking up different types of trim on his iPad. I hum as I walk around the apartment, checking out my mail and nibbling at my leftover ravioli from the night before.
“Do you mind?”
“That you’re here? Yes. But I figured I don’t have a choice,” I say around a mouthful of pasta.
“Ha. Seriously, though, humming is my biggest pet peeve.”
“Hmm. You the same guy who plays music on repeat to bother your neighbor?”
“Nope. You’ve got the wrong guy.”
