I shake my head. “Thanks, but I should head out. I told Mir we’d hang today.”
I pull my hand from his and cross to the bed, where my clothes, shoes, and purse got stuffed beneath the comforter before Alex opened the door for his dad. I change in the bathroom, leave the clothes he let me borrow folded neatly on the foot of his bed. Alex hovers, waiting, watching me.
“Well. Thanks for…” I gesture around lamely. “This.”
“You’re welcome anytime.”
“I’m welcome to hide in your murder closet anytime?”
“Next time, I’ll even let you taste test one of my beers while you’re in there.”
“But I thought we were friends now.”
Alex’s lips kick up, and I smile weakly in return. Three days ago, we were bickering in a conference room about the social media budget, and I couldn’t wait to get out of his presence. Now I want more than fourteen hours. I want all of Alex’s hours. How exactly did we get here?
I walk past him toward the door, freaking out a little bit. “See you Monday.”
“Casey.”
The word stops me in my tracks, reaching past my eardrums, soaking into my body until his voice is in my veins.
I freeze, looking back. His lips are parted, breath light, clothing wrinkled head to toe. Static electricity seems to run through his midnight hair. His hands are in the pockets of his pajama pants, but I can just see the shadow of the tattoo on his inner wrist.
The thing about Alex is, most of the time, you know you’re getting only a small part of his attention because he’s thinking about a million other things plus one more. Normally, I can almost see the cogs of his brain working on the next thing. Like he can’t stay still. Can’t look back. But lately, when he looks at me, it feels like he might be letting everything else fall away.
Hoarsely, he murmurs, “See you Monday.”
On my way home, I wonder what might’ve happened in that bed if no one had come knocking.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Monday is bookended by the company-wide email at nine in the morning announcing the retirement of board chairman Robert Harrison, and a tragic afternoon hot chocolate spill on my keyboard that totally fucks with my lender proposal. Also, I forgot to bring Benny a fancy coffee like he asked for on Friday afternoon. Flawless Fari brings him a triple venti nonfat dry cappuccino all the way from DUMBO, which means I have to spend thirty minutes on the phone today talking the ex-COO missus out of hiring a skywriter to fly past our windows.
There are women who don’t deserve their vilification as overly dramatic, scorned ex-wives, and then there is Angelica Downey.
After I finish cleaning my keyboard with makeup wipes and seltzer, Fari asks me, “Did you ever meet Robert Harrison? Back when he was our CEO?”
“No,” I say. “Why?”
Also, why are all my succulents dying? I poke my index finger into the soil of one of my planters. Perfectly balanced, not too dry, not damp, either. My cubicle is by the window, so there’s plenty of sunlight.…
“Casey, did you hear me?”
I poke my head up. “Huh?”
“I asked what you thought about Dougie taking over as chairman and CEO.”
I blink. “Um. What?”
Fari rolls her eyes. “It was in the email.”
I had admittedly skimmed the email.
Okay, fine, I didn’t read it at all because I thought I’d already known everything there was to know. I filed it unread into a subfolder labeled Executives on Soap Boxes. (I like to think the people in IT monitoring my work usage get a kick out of my subfolder nicknames, too.)
Actually, I spent the 9:00 A.M. hour reading articles from the latest issue of Take Me There: the travel magazine headquartered in London. There was a six-page spread on London—more specifically, how to be a tourist in London without acting like one—and it lit a fire inside me to get back to work on Bite the Hand’s income projections. The faster we launch the subsidiary, the quicker I’ll get tapped for a transfer. The quicker I get tapped for a transfer, the faster I’ll figure out what my own legacy is supposed to be.
But now, my nose wrinkles at the thought of Dougie Dawson being our CEO and the interim chairman. If a CEO is the prime minister, the board chairman is the monarchy: background noise until something drastic happens. Only then are you reminded of their divine power. It feels wrong, and frankly unethical, to have the same person doing both.
“Gross,” I mutter.
“You’ve met him?” Fari asks. “Dougie?”
“Yeah. He’s archaic, and I’m not talking about his age.”
Fari sighs. “Wonderful.”
She goes back to scanning emails. I grab my mouse and sift through Outlook until I find the email from this morning.
Effective immediately, Robert Harrison will be stepping down as Chairman of Little Cooper’s Board of Directors. We thank Robert for twenty-five years of service and all the roles he occupied: Financial Manager, Director of Financial Operations, VP of Finance, CEO, and Board Chairman. We wish Robert the best in his retirement.
Filling Robert’s shoes as interim chairman is Douglas (Dougie) Dawson, Little Cooper’s own CEO. While the search is conducted for a permanent board chairman, Dougie is excited to focus more substantially on furthering Little Cooper’s legacy.
Look. I’m not here to promote toxic masculinity, but isn’t rule number one of the Fuckboy Handbook: Business Edition to hold on to your territory by any means necessary? Why would Robert retire now, knowing his adversary would inevitably step up to the plate? I mean, it’s not like Dougie got that position out of the blue. Decisions like that happen behind closed doors, distributed to us underlings in the form of bite-size propaganda.
So what the heck is Robert playing at?
* * *
I don’t see Alex in person until Wednesday afternoon during the weekly all-hands meeting for Bite the Hand. He sits across the table from me and acts very professional, talking about photo shoot arrangements for Love Letters (a column by queer writers written epistolary style) and contacting a Discord rep about We Need to Talk (a fanatical and wildly inappropriate server where people both love and hate-love our brand).
I sit across from him in a room full of people, answering questions about dollars and cents, thinking about how he’s so. much. better. at this stuff than I would have ever been, and also the way he cradled me as we slept.
“Casey, can we make this work in December?” Alex asks me in regard to a podcast launch he’s been orchestrating. “I know we planned the expense for next fiscal year, but the guest we want for the first episode can only do before Christmas or after Valentine’s Day. Don’t ask me why. I think it was something celestial.”
I summon all my typical malaise when Alex asks my department for money and say, “If you absolutely must, but I’ll need a new expense report.”
The smirk he throws me has a devilish gleam. “Certainly.”