Christmas on the Thirteenth Floor (Holinights #1)
Lee Jacquot
I absolutely hate my boss.
No. That’s not right. It doesn’t feel strong enough. I utterly loathe him.
If he was on fire, I’d throw a stack of files into the flames, the same way he drops them onto my desk every morning. If he was drowning, I'd tell him that he should have managed his time better and learned how to swim before he jumped in the water. If he found himself stranded on an island, and I knew the location, I would turn off my phone and hope the sun roasts his stupidly perfect tan into charred bits. Bits I’d remember later when cutting into my nicely seared steak.
Yes. That’s about right. I think that sums up how I feel about the man.
The man.
I roll my eyes as the phrase flits through my mind. He is the literal definition of the man.
The one who makes an obscene amount of money and has no qualms flaunting it with his designer everything . The one who has his nose held in the air when he walks past the sea of desks toward the elevator—an elevator he refuses to share with anyone else while he’s in it. Let’s not forget he’s considered a savior to the board when he comes through with creative ideas to keep our company at the top of all the others.
Every man here wants to be him, and happily settles for being his doormat, while every woman wants to slide into his pants.
And yeah, I can admit it—he’s hot. Because why wouldn’t the CEO of a fortune 500, the asshole of the century, and bane of my existence, be New York’s hottest bachelor?
I mean, it’s just like every romance book you pick up and swoon over. Only, here’s the thing. He’s not some redeemable asshole and I am not some shy, timid wallflower—at least not when it comes to him.
Nope. It’s the exact opposite. He is a dominating whirlwind of force that crushes anything in his way, never looking back at the havoc he’s wreaked. While I’m the uncertain waves in the ocean, going from soft kisses upon the shore to torrential waters as soon as his breeze hits me.
Where he’s hard edges and high cheekbones, I’m delicate and soft curves. While he commands the room with his presence, I’m happy to sit at the back and dip out early so I can watch TV on my couch.
But then there’s the fact that while I’m not the best socialite, I can also be a firecracker with a bad mouth, and an even badder bite. (I know that’s not a word; don’t correct me when I’m venting.) I’m five foot seven, with wavy red hair, and a body that still holds the frame to prove I was once an avid volleyball player. And even with the extra cushion from my love of cupcakes, I’m still very confident in my skin. Not to mention, my face—yes, my face—has appeared in three Sephora shoots because I know my way around a makeup palette.
Though if I’m being honest, I’d much rather blog about it than be subjected to the blinding lights and constant bickering of photo shoots. It was an awesome experience, but it also affirmed that what I currently do in marketing is right where I need to be, just in the orbit of the makeup world.
Though if I’m being honest, I’d much rather blog about it than be subjected to the blinding lights and constant bickering of photo shoots. It was an awesome experience, but also affirmed that what I currently do in marketing is right where I need to be, just in the makeup world.
See, I’m something of an advocate for beauty products that are clean, cruelty free, and are still vibrant while giving what they need to. It’s the passion I seek outside of the four glass walls of the building I occupy nearly sixty hours a week.
Yep. That’s right. Sixty. Because fuck you if you don’t count the emails I answer at home, or the errands I run off the clock. I do. I count every last second and add it to my timecard each week.
My asshole of a boss used to argue with me and the finance guys, but soon enough, he realized if he wanted the best personal assistant, he was going to have to pay for it.
Why haven’t I left? Well, the check for one. It’s cushy and allows me to afford my obsession with pretty shoes and horror movies. Plus, I really like the VP, Mrs. Charlotte Wessinger. She’s a goddess in the marketing industry. Respected by peers, colleagues, and the community alike. Not only that, but she teaches me her ways when the douchemago isn’t around.
While I have no problem mouthing off to the disrespectful assholes of the world, I'm a tad shyer when putting out my work—my art, as Charlotte calls it. It’s one of the only things, besides my insistent patch of eczema on my left ankle, that I’m self-conscious about, and slowly but surely, she’s given me the encouragement I need to send out my articles.
I’ve sent out three this week, all to the biggest magazines in the makeup industry, and have even started a website. Granted, there’s nothing there besides a blank slate and little “under construction” text on the page, but it’s a start.
I think they say it’s the first step that’s the hardest, so it’s got to count for something, right?
“Your eyes are so big, they look like golf balls. What are you thinking about?” The resident nosey Nancy stands at the edge of my desk, eyeing my to-do list. She turns her recently sculpted nose up when she sees my Christmas tree doodles on the side.
It’s true, I could be utilizing this time to go over things on said list, but also, getting lost in thought while watching the first snowfall of the year is far more enticing.
I nod toward the floor to ceiling windows, but Nancy doesn’t bother turning around. Instead, she raises her thin blonde brows and widens her dark blue eyes as if to ask her question again.
I’ll be honest here. I’m not a fan of nosey Nancy. She’s the personal assistant of Charlotte, and believe me when I say, I wish only jealousy of her position played a part in my distaste for her. But alas, it doesn’t even begin to scratch the surface. Nancy is just... perfect? At least, she thinks she is.
She has the body every model aspires to have, hair you see in magazines, and flawless skin she gets from “drinking her berry water.” Her words, not mine. But the thing is, her idea of perfection makes everyone around her miserable. Not only because she tells me I shouldn’t have my iced coffee with a blueberry muffin, or when it’s the third time in a week I’ve had fast food delivered, but because she thinks everyone wants to look like her.
Spoiler alert, I like my curves, and according to my BMI, I’m a healthy weight. So she can suck it.
Then there’s also the fact that she’s the office busy body. A walking water cooler. You only tell her something when you want the entire building to know. Learned that little tidbit the hard way when I first got hired and told her what a dick the big guy is. That was an awkward first meeting.
But also, I really am jealous as hell she works for Charlotte and leaves work on time. Every. Single. Day.