Peyton frowns, reaching for it beside her coffee. “I don’t recognize the number.”
I shrug lightly. “Answer it.”
She hits the button, putting it on speakerphone, then answers.
“Hello?”
“Peyton?”
The second I hear a man’s voice, something sharp twists low in my stomach.
It’s professional. Older. Confident.
Peyton straightens slightly. “Yes?”
“Hey, it’s Mark Donahue from Sandstone Publishing. I’m John Martin’s boss.”
“My boss’s boss,”she mouths to me.
Everything inside me goes still.
“Oh my God.” Peyton’s eyes widen. “Yes, I know who you are.”
The man laughs warmly. “I’m calling with some good news. We finally got infrastructure back enough to start rebuilding properly. We’ve been trying to reach several displaced employees.”
My grip tightens slowly around my coffee mug.
Peyton glances at me briefly before looking away again. “Okay…”
“We’d love to have you back.”
The words slam into me harder than any hit I’ve taken on the ice.
My heartbeat slows strangely. Like my body doesn’t know how to function correctly.
“We know you went through hell after the hurricane,” Mark continues. “But honestly? Your work before the storm was incredible. And your social media engagement numbers were some of the highest in the company.”
Peyton blinks rapidly. “Oh.”
“We’re restructuring the department, and we want to offer you a promotion.”
Something cold slides quietly beneath my ribs.
Promotion.
Florida.
Leaving me.
My lungs suddenly feel too tight. Too small.
Peyton stares down at the table silently.
“We’d increase your salary significantly,” he continues. “And we’d help with relocation costs, considering the circumstances.”
Relocation.
Jesus Christ.
