Total pages in book: 49
Estimated words: 47606 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 238(@200wpm)___ 190(@250wpm)___ 159(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 47606 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 238(@200wpm)___ 190(@250wpm)___ 159(@300wpm)
Daisy snorted, which made the rest of us laugh.
“Brize is over there too,” Libby announced, tapping me on the shoulder. “It might be helpful for you to say hello to him so when I suggest he take you from Jonah, then he will.”
“So in this scenario, I’ve left Colton and now work for Jonah Dumont?”
Before she could answer, Natalie chimed in. “You’re better off working for Pilar.” She used tongs to put spinach salad on her plate. “As I’ve said a million times, Brize is an entitled ass.”
“Again,” Libby snapped, “you simply don’t like him because he demands perfection.”
“He demands,” she began, enunciating the word, “that people work overtime when he misses deadlines.”
I turned to look at Libby.
“That’s not true.”
“The hell it’s not,” Koji backed up Natalie. “He expects his people to read his mind, can’t be bothered to follow up when we text him, and when we put his work aside after letting him know it won’t get done unless he actually talks to us, we end up staying late to dig him out of the hole he’s created.”
“That’s categorically untrue,” Libby defended her boss.
“At least we get paid overtime,” Natalie apprised Koji.
“Yeah, but I don’t want to get paid overtime. I want to go home and then go out and get laid.”
She snickered. “Well, good luck with that. I haven’t been on a date in ages.”
“Same,” he muttered.
“It’s not like that all the time,” Libby assured me. “And you work late for Gates, so you know we all have to burn the midnight oil on occasion.”
“It happens with Brize all the time,” Koji imparted. “Libby is lying because she doesn’t stay.”
“I’m not lying,” she retorted.
“This goes back to what I was saying before about you not protecting your people,” Natalie insisted.
“I protect my people, but associates are not mine, only the support staff.”
Koji grunted.
“Brize is gifted,” Libby told Natalie, “and sometimes that translates to late hours when he’s discovered some masterful loophole.”
“He’s lazy,” Natalie declared, shooting me a look. “And he has all of us doing his work while he takes the credit.”
“Clients want to see partner hours,” I reminded them. “Makes them think they’re being taken care of. Brize has to take the credit, you all know that.”
It got quiet for a moment before they all ended up nodding. Libby was smiling at me before she pointed over my shoulder. “He’s right there. Hurry up and introduce yourself.”
“Who are you pointing at? Brize or Jonah?” Natalie asked her.
“Jonah. I’ll talk to Brize first, then I’ll reintroduce you.”
“Will you two get out of the way,” ordered Koji, waving his hand to get us to move. “I need the quiche and the baby pickles off that plate too.”
Stepping out of line, Libby took hold of my bicep and drew me after her. When we were standing near the prime-rib station—it must be nice to have both the space and the money for a catered work dinner with waitstaff—she pointed at Dumont, who was talking to a strikingly beautiful blonde girl.
I had never been the kind of person who thought girl instead of woman, but in this case, it fit. Her outfit conveyed grown-up, but one look told me she was very young. And more importantly, very uncomfortable.
Her left arm was across her chest, almost like she was hugging herself, and in her right hand was a filled-to-the-brim glass of champagne. Clearly, she had not come from the same grueling day the rest of us had, as she was wearing a tiny skintight black dress that didn’t leave much to the imagination. Dumont, standing too close, was the cause of her distress, as evidenced by the slight steps she took back. All that ended up doing was to bump her into another man, dressed like Dumont, in a suit with a dress shirt and no tie. He too turned and smiled, also too close, looming over her.
“You know what, Libby,” I said softly, passing her the plate I’d filled with food, “I really am happy working for Gates.”
“What?” she asked, horrified.
Moving quickly, I made it to the girl’s side at the same time Dumont closed his hand around her upper arm.
“Becky, is that you?” I said far too loudly, using a weird high-pitched, excited voice, stepping in front of her, jostling her on purpose so that the champagne never stood a chance. Some of it splashed me—which was fine, I was wearing jeans, an old Henley, and sneakers that had seen better days—but the rest got on the sleeve of the very expensive bespoke Italian suit Dumont was wearing.
Dumont yelled and recoiled. His buddy bumped me out of the way as he passed me to grab napkins from the table to our left. As both men were distracted, I put my hand out for the girl, offering, and the second she took my hand, I led her away.