Oh God, just shut up so he walks away and you can get away with some dignity left. I smiled and said, “I’ll meet you in there before it starts.”
He nodded slowly and turned toward the conference room. “Sounds good.”
Things I’d most likely find on my desk by the end of the week: a random drug test form and a formal letter terminating my employment.
As soon as he was out of sight, I turned toward the elevator, set the coffees on the floor, shimmied out of my sweater, and tried pulling again. And, again, another soft rip started at the bottom hem.
“Please, Betsey, what did I ever do to you?” I begged.
I tried prying the doors open, but they wouldn’t budge. “I will give you anything if you just give me my sweater back.” That included offering Jackson as a human sacrifice. Anything to get this back.
I pressed the down button and figured if the doors opened, it would plop into my welcoming, broke as a joke arms. The hum of the elevator car moving was a comforting sound. Yes, the doors would open, the sweater would drop, and I’d make it to the meeting in time.
“I promise to take the stairs every day from now on if you just spare the sweater. It’s Chanel, for Christ sake,” I pleaded.
I was reduced to bargaining with a hunk of metal. Stupid Betsey.
The fabric of my sweater must have gotten caught in the internal mechanisms, because as the elevator arrived, the cardigan shot to the top of doorway in a mangled heap and a horrible ripping sound confirmed this accessory was toast. A mix of a wail and a groan edged up my throat as I stared at the article of clothing. I stood there, stunned. It was like one of those terrible videos on YouTube of men dancing in thongs—horrifying, and yet I couldn’t look away.
The doors flew open, and my cardigan dropped right in front of Jackson’s feet.
He pursed his lips and stepped around it like it was road kill. “Typical,” he said, his stupid pert nose pointed to the sky. “I told you, Betsey only gives what she thinks you deserve.” Then he was off to the conference room while I stood there, staring at the mound of black cashmere on the floor.
I gathered up the tattered fabric, squeezed it to my chest, and promised myself that I’d give it a proper burial in the bottom of my closet once I returned home tonight. Shoving the garment into my desk drawer, I followed Jackson into the conference room and took the only available seat at the oversize round conference table.
The other employees, who’d either ignored my existence or gone out of their way to avoid me the first week, were now smiling, and all said hello to me when I sat down. They didn’t bother saying hi to Jackson, which the grinch didn’t seem to notice, or he just didn’t care.
Brogan glanced over at me, and his eyes widened a fraction as his gaze dipped below my shoulders to the very low-cut top I’d had on under my cardigan. They quickly flickered back up to my eyes, and he cleared his throat and shifted restlessly in his seat. I couldn’t be 100 percent certain, but if I wagered a guess, that quick flit of movement to my chest erred more on the side of bang me than you’re breaking office dress code. Or that might have been a heaping serving of wishful thinking with a side dish of “I need to get some.”
Down girl. He’s your boss, not an office pervert.
He focused on the rest of the employees, who were talking amicably amongst themselves. As soon as he started talking they quieted down, and all seemed to be raptly listening. “Let’s get this meeting started, shall we?” His tone held an authoritative air while still remaining friendly. That is exactly how I would describe Brogan—commanding but also approachable.
“Melissa, what do we have on projections for the new year?”
She shuffled papers in front of her and said, “We’re slated to have at least forty new clients by next June.”
“Triple it.” Brogan said and nodded toward the guy sitting next to Melissa. “What do you have on our return on investment projections, Gabe?”
“I’m still working on it, but it looks like we’ll double our profits by the end of the fiscal year.”
Brogan nodded, pleased. “That’s what I like to hear. Have the numbers on my desk by Friday.”
Gabe smiled and gave a quick chin bob, which I assumed meant “sure thing” in dude talk.
He worked his way around the table, each person sharing their reports from their specific departments.
“What other news do we have?”
Someone chimed in on an idea to save Starr Media money by cutting services that were weighing the company down and not providing much in terms of profit.