Page 9 of Go Back to December

“I’m not a real socialpreneur,” I say hoarsely. “The café was your idea.”

“No, it wasn’t,” she retorts automatically, her cheeks turning pink.

“Lacy, you brought me here.”

“The café was not my idea,” she argues. “You made everything happen. Why won’t you take credit for it?”

“Because according to these questions I can’t answer, I’m a giant faker.”

“Stop. You are the most authentic person I know.”

“That’s because most of your acquaintances are self-promoting knobs.”

She raises a shoulder. “It’s the price of loving the law. We’ll figure out how to answer these questions. You’ve done all the work. All we have to do is sell it to the selection committee, so you outshine the other finalists.”

Her reference to the committee and finalists summons my inner monster of suspicion. “Did you tell anyone else I applied for the Lightman?”

“Of course not. You asked me to keep it low-key.”

“Then how did Baz find out?”

“He must have a contact in the program.”

Baz is a connected bastard. “Do you think he’ll tell anyone?”

“Why would he?” She shakes her head. “Let’s not lose focus here. You start on that personal statement and I’ll work on Badger’s nomination letter.”

“Forget it. I can’t risk waiting until he’s back. You write it.”

“I’m not Badger Leary. Former ambassador and chief operating badass. You need Badger.”

“He doesn’t know who I am.”

“None of these assholes ever knows who they’re recommending for anything.” She flaps a hand. “Speaking of assholes, we better get moving or we’ll be late to this finance meeting.”

Lacy drags me down the hall to a glass-walled conference room. It’s already occupied by a few first-year associates. Baby Money Honeys. They’re the worst of the lot. The population at Blackhart & Steele subsists off a diet of matcha kale smoothies, whiskey, and betrayal. For the right visibility with senior partners, they won’t just cut a bitch.

They’ll cut a village of bitches.

A third of them don’t eat animal products, a third won’t consume processed grains, and the remaining third won’t touch anything with sugar, natural or otherwise. So the only refreshments at the Finance Committee meeting are these obscene raw almonds that the male-presenting Money Honeys pound by the fistful. I’m surprised they’re not afraid of being sued over a nut allergy, but apparently, raw almonds are the great unifier of business catering.

A gorgeous Black guy in a three-piece suit fitted to perfection grabs a handful of nuts. His dimpled smile fades at the first bite. “Jesus, these aren’t even salted.”

He looks squarely at me, like I’m to blame.

I glance down at his ID badge. If I’m going to kick his ass, I’ll also be taking his name.

Dooley. One of Baz’s henchmen. He occasionally stops at the café for a power bowl. Judging by how his suit fits, he treats his body like a temple. And judging by the looks of many of the Money Honeys in the room, he has more than a few worshippers.

“Good morning.” Sibyl Jackson, the head of the Finance Committee, glides into the glass-walled conference room on razor-thin heels. Lacy describes Sibyl as the secret love child of Annie Lennox and Prince. She’s fully on-brand today in a pin-striped waistcoat and matching cigarette pants that are more immaculately tailored than Dooley’s suit.

“Thanks for coming on short notice, Mel.” Sibyl holds my gaze like a firm handshake. It’s a look that’s more than acknowledgment. It feels like respect. Like I’ve earned the right to sit at this table, despite the fact I’m surrounded by people with far more earning potential.

These meetings have never been easy. During the entire first year, I warred with the committee to keep the café open. We were losing more money than we were making. Everyone spoke about insolvency as if it were inevitable. Which made me more determined to prove them wrong. Most Moneys have never experienced real failure. I have.

And I’m never letting it happen to me again.

An impatient fist knocks on the glass door and, without waiting for a reply, Baz marches into the conference room. He sinks into the seat next to Dooley, as if he always attends these meetings, but he’s never served on the committee.