Page 133 of Sexting His Assistant

“For caffeine?”

“To resign.”

My hand tightens around the mug.

There it is. The real reason he came, or at least one of them.

I turn slowly. “I haven’t quit yet.”

His face changes immediately. “Why not?”

I open my mouth. Nothing comes out.

Because I can’t say, well, I did try to resign, but your best friend stormed into my apartment, tore up the letter, declared I wasn’t leaving him, confessed he hadn’t slept with women in months because he couldn’t stop thinking about me, then I slapped him, then we had sex, then we had breakfast, then he kissed me softly before sneaking out because you were on your way.

So instead, I say, “HR process.”

Misha stares.

I stare back.

“HR process?” he repeats.

“Yes.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means there’s a process.”

“For resigning?”

“Yes.”

“You write a letter and leave.”

“Well, maybe it works for you, but as civilized people? There are notice periods and transition plans and documentation.”

“You already have a letter.”

Damn. I forget he knows things.

“I’m editing it.”

“Editing it?”

“Yes.”

“For what? Tone?”

“Yes.”

“You are resigning, not submitting poetry.”

“Maybe I want my resignation to be elegant.”

“You hate that job.”

I stiffen.