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  Was.

  “Charlie, I’ve known that man since I started here. Every associate—hell, every man who’s not a vice president—wants to be him, and I bet some of the VPs secretly do too. He’s Mr. Confident. Controlled. Contained…except around you. You short-circuit him.”

  I arched a brow.

  “And you…you spend every spare moment thinking of how to humiliate him. You say he deserves it. But I think it’s because you’re waiting for the day he finds out. Because that day, the gloves will come off.” She sipped her drink before setting the glass down on the bar. “And I’m guessing a whole lot more than that.”

  I shoved her in the arm. “Avery Banks wouldn’t look at me that way if I glued hundred dollar bills to my tits and lay naked across his desk.”

  “He’s not such a bad guy.”

  “Oh really? Name one thing he’s ever done for you or me.” Payton opened her mouth, but nothing came out.

  Laughter behind me had me turning.

  Rose’s head was tilted back as she touched Avery’s arm. He didn’t look irritated.

  Until his gaze flicked past Rose and landed on me.

  So much for Payton’s theory. That man didn’t give a shit about anyone but himself. I definitely was not on his radar.

  “I need to go,” I said, shifting off my stool.

  “Lunch tomorrow?”

  “Um. Yeah. Done.”

  I ignored the pain that came from realizing it’d be our last one.

  4

  Is Sarcasm a Skill?

  The subway ride home was routine enough I could do it in my sleep. The headphones in my ears drowned out the world.

  The walk from the subway to my place was only a few blocks. I took the stairs up to the third floor, fumbling with the old lock.

  Inside, I kicked off my heels at the front hall. The Fendis took out another three neatly lined-up pair like a well-planned bowling ball. I left them in a grimly satisfying pile of leopard, snakeskin, sequins, and shiny patent in every color.

  My apartment might’ve been the size of Avery’s office, but it was in a good neighborhood. It fit my indulgences—shoes, clothes, and nail polish.

  I crossed the small living room to the kitchen, skirting the desk that took up one wall. I dropped my bag on the counter and pulled out the blue envelope, staring at the letters again. Then propped it next to the identical blue envelope from two months ago.

  The pantry was empty, but I found a candle—Moroccan Mint, I decided. Does Morocco really smell like mint? I’d never traveled enough to know. Canandaigua, New York, had been big on wine and steamboat tours but low on opportunities for travel.

  My phone buzzed on the counter and I lifted the device.

  * * *

  Are you there?

  * * *

  Followed by a poop emoji.

  I dialed a number. “Hi Grams. What’s with the poop?”

  “What’s that, Charlie?”

  “The emoji.”

  “I thought that was a Hershey’s kiss.”

  “Close. How’s it hanging?”

  “It’s hanging fine, dear. We were watching the news tonight and they were talking about your bank. You had a bad man in charge.”

  Apparently Hollister was still the darling of the twenty-four-hour news cycle.

  “He thinks with his dick. Like all men.”

  “Real men think with their brains. Their genitalia merely offer suggestions.”

  My stomach growled, and I put the phone on speaker on the counter while I scoured the fridge. I hadn’t eaten since breakfast.

  Freezer. Jackpot.

  “You still up for a visit soon? I’ll bring the Oreos.” I pulled out two frozen waffles from next to the block of cash and stuck them in the toaster. Whoever decided that breakfast food couldn’t be eaten three meals a day was a moron.

  “Yes. Where are you calling from? Aren’t you at that bar Thursdays?”

  My grams might be pushing eighty, but she didn’t miss a thing.

  “Got home a while ago.”

  “With a man.” Her voice was triumphant.

  “If I had a man with me, Grams, you think I’d be calling you right now?”

  “You know, even if you’re not ready to settle down, they have other unique advantages.”

  I pulled open the drawer in my coffee table to reveal countless little bottles of color.

  Plus a vibrator.

  Unique advantages my ass.

  “You watching Jeopardy with Peter?”

  “That man spent too long in the navy. The only literature he knows is limericks about whores and sailors.”

  “Yeah, well. Peter and I have that in common. Everything OK with you?”

  “Yes, dear. I’m fine.”

  “What would Dr. Thatcher say?”

  “Dr. Thatcher would say anything you want to hear.”

  I made a face. I don’t like smug white collar guys who act like you should be grateful to breathe their air. “I’ll see you soon, Grams.”

  I clicked off and set the phone on the white coffee table I’d gotten from my grandparents when they’d downsized.

  They’d sold their small house to pay for the assisted living home they both lived in for two years. When my grandfather passed away, I spent more time with my grandmother. I could tell she missed him, but I tried to make it less painful for her.

  I lifted one of the bottles out of the drawer, plus the vibe.

  How did that get there?

  Oh yeah. The other night on the couch with that lumberjack documentary. Because once you lumberjack, you don’t lumberback.

  Most women rub one out to pretty boys. I like guys who work with their hands. Who don’t wear a collar to work. The ones who’ve lived in the world and survived.

  Not that I ever ran into guys with plaid and calluses working in the financial district.

  Boston isn’t a hotbed of handy hunks, period. Which is probably why me going on a date happens about as often as a lunar eclipse.

  I used to see guys casually. But once you discover the wonders of toys…why bother? Why listen to a dude’s awkward posturing that was all about getting in your pants anyway? I’d rather buy the wine myself and know exactly who I was going home with…

  Someone that would deliver, then be neatly packed back into the bedside table when I was done with him.

  I glanced toward my wall calendar. The photos in this year’s Banker Babes calendar might have be different from the one Rose had seen, but most of the models were the same. June’s was Tony from audit.

  Lucky Tony was going to be up for a while, seeing as July’s was ripped out.

  For the record, I hadn’t voted to make Avery July. But Emma and Kristal had outvoted me. I’d never have told them in a million years that, in a moment of weakness after a New Year’s party that had left me smiling on the outside and empty on the inside, I’d come home and put up the calendar.

  Then got off to the image of my boss.

  A shot of him without the jacket, his shirt pulled tight over the muscles of his chest and shoulders. His mouth curving at the corner like he’d just landed a deal.

  To be clear, the reason I did it had nothing to do with the man or his mouth and everything to do with his position. He’s my boss, which makes him off limits. Forbidden. Against the rules.

  Which for me is the equivalent of taking out a billboard and shining helicopter search lights on it.

  And now he’s fired you.

  How’s that for full circle?

  I shut the drawer and shifted back on the couch.

  I’d been psyched to watch this Netflix doc on the origins of sushi tonight. (Because who came up with the idea of rolling raw fish? Probably a lumberjack.) It would have to wait. I needed a job.

  I searched my virtually-dusty files to find a copy of my resume.

  Shit. Had it always been this short? I could hardly remember a time before I worked at Alliance. When they’d hired me, I’d been desperate. And so were the
y.

  I started adding lines. Filing, check. Telephones, double check (once for landlines and once for cell phones). Is sarcasm a skill? I erred on the side of inclusion.

  Here’s hoping Boston was experiencing a shortage of sassy blonds with asshole-management skills.

  5

  You’re Making Me Blush

  “Why didn’t you tell me this yesterday?”

  “I didn’t want to burst your cohab bubble.”

  Payton’s sigh was audible over the phone as I tugged on tights. “Of course I’ll be a reference.”

  “Great. Because I already included you.”

  “What are you applying to?”

  “Assistant jobs. Bartending. The post office.”

  “The post office? Come on. That’s not you.”

  “I don’t have a fancy degree like you, Payton. My options are limited. But I have an interview in thirty minutes.”

  “And you’re preparing?”

  “Trying to decide what the line is between cleavage and Nipplegate. Yes.” I unbuttoned another button. The pink of my bra peeked out.

  An hour later, I shifted on my bar stool as a guy looked over my resume. Then my outfit.

  “How old are you?”

  “Twenty-four.”

  “You look older.”

  “Super.”

  “Nah, I mean. You’ve got the look.”

  “To be clear, these—” I cupped my tits and his eyes widened “—are for display only. Not for sale. To you or the customers.”

  He lifted his hands. “Fair enough. The college kids will still love you. You got references?”

  “I hostessed here before starting my last job.” I scrawled a name on the paper and he frowned.

  “They’ve been out of business for two years. Anyone else?”

  I slid over Payton’s extension. “Yeah. I worked for her until recently.”

  “Aright. We’ll give a call over and get back to you.”

  A few people looked over my cubicle wall as I packed up my desk. I flashed a bland smile. For some reason I couldn’t tell people I’d been fired.

  The call came through just as I finished packing my desk and my spider plant, Trevor. (Because all living things deserve names.)

  “Charlie. It’s Evan, from this morning. Listen, I shouldn’t be telling you this. But you seem like you need the work, so…there’s no way I can hire you based on the reference I got. You might want to change that before you apply anywhere else.”

  I stumbled down the hall—cursing as my pink Louboutins sank into the wet patch of carpet—and into Payton’s office.

  “Hey. Did you get a call for a reference?”

  Her brows drew together. “Nope.” She hit a few buttons on her work phone. “Weird. Maybe messages are still going to switchboard since I was away last week.”

  “Then who the hell would they have gone to…?”

  Storm clouds gathered over my head.

  Second rule of survival: Never underestimate your opponent.

  I strode down the hall, fists clenched at my sides. I might not’ve looked like a warrior in the sleeveless, low-cut silk blouse and tight pencil skirt, but I was ready for battle.

  “What did you say to them?”

  I addressed the question to the slice of head visible over the top of the computer screen in Avery’s office.

  Today’s suit was blue, shades darker than his eyes. If I didn’t know better, I’d guess he’d saved up all his irritation to unload it on me in a single glare.

  “You must be here to return your employee ID.”

  I ignored his outstretched hand. “I interviewed for a job this morning. How did you get hold of them?”

  “Presumably they called HR. HR put them through to me.”

  I crossed to his desk, shifting over it. “Do you seriously think I’m bad at my job?”

  His gaze hardened. “They asked if you were an exemplary employee. I said you were disloyal and difficult.”

  “I left sticky notes on your client files. Saved social media profiles, favorite restaurants, anniversaries. I know their kids’ names, their kids’ dogs’ names, and their kids’ dogs’ fleas’ names. And difficult? Let’s talk about difficult. You don’t follow any rules except your own. Any schedule except the one in your head. And you don’t listen to anyone.”

  “Compromise is for the weak.”

  “Compromise is for human beings.”

  Before he could answer, we were interrupted by a redhead storming in the door.

  “Mr. Banks?” Mallory something-or-other. In communications. I shifted back to let her into Avery’s line of fire. “A member of the gala team just quit.”

  Avery met Mallory’s sharp gaze. “And you’re here because?”

  “Redpath’s office said that as the lead on the corporate banking image project, you’re also the new go-to on the annual gala. HR told me to talk to you about getting more help.”

  The fundraiser showed off the bank in front of clients, prospective clients, and as many old, rich men as we could find. I’d never been but knew it was a big deal.

  This year probably mattered more than most.

  I knew the look Avery sent her. It was the you can fuck right off look, but he couldn’t say that. Not when this was his responsibility.

  “What kind of help do you need?” Avery said finally.

  “Logistics. Working with the band, the venue. Checking client lists…we’re behind on ticket sales with all this bad press from Hollister. We’re undersold by fifty percent with barely two weeks to go. It’s a disaster. Redpath’s going to murder us.”

  I tried to look contrite. “That’s unfortunate. Best of luck to you both.”

  Two heads swiveled toward me. It was like they’d forgotten I was there.

  His gaze narrowed. “Mallory? Give me five minutes.”

  I didn’t like the sound of Avery’s voice, even before Mallory left. He rose from his chair and started his laps along the windows of his office.

  He stopped his pacing to rub a hand over the back of his neck.

  “I have a call in to the head of HR, but apparently I won’t have a new assistant for a few weeks.”

  My incredulous laugh earned me a glare.

  “They’ll probably send some moron who can’t tie her own shoes,” he went on.

  “I thought that was me.”

  “I said you were disloyal and difficult. I never said you were stupid.”

  “Stop, you’re making me blush.”

  Avery leaned back against his desk, his gaze narrowing. “You really want to pour cheap beer for leering frat boys at some college bar?”

  “Let’s see…spending my shifts running at the whim of men who have zero respect for me and what I do—or bartending. I’ll take bartending.”

  His face went slack in surprise. “That’s what you think it’s like to work here.”

  I met his gaze head-on. He studied me, and I wished to hell I knew what was going on behind the purse of his mouth. The drawn eyebrows. The gaze that suddenly looked less angry than uncertain.

  Fuck it. Not my problem anymore.

  Avery reached for the notepad on the corner of his desk before I could turn away. He scratched something on the top sheet of paper and held it out. I read his strong, forceful handwriting.

  Charlotte has been an important member of Alliance’s administrative team. I have been satisfied with her services during her tenure.

  My heart kicked in my chest. “What is this?”

  “Your reference. And it’ll be coming from a director once I land that promotion.”

  “Wait. They’re promoting you to director?”

  “It’s not official. But Jamie’s on leave,” he said, referencing his and Payton’s boss. “He’s given notice that he’s retiring early. And they’re looking for his replacement. If I can impress Redpath, the job is mine. My performance review’s happening days after the gala.”

  “Why would he pick you?”

  �
�I have a new idea that will change how we bank. Put data at our fingertips that will make us more efficient.”

  “Wasn’t that Hollister’s problem? It was too accessible.”

  Avery frowned. “That’s above your paygrade. What matters is that with my reference you can work anywhere in the city. If you do something for me. I need this gala to succeed. And I need time to land this promotion. I can’t do that if I’m buried in paperwork.”

  I counted in my head. “So you want me to keep doing my job for another month.”

  “Not the way you’ve been doing it. For the next month, you will be a model assistant. The only words I want to hear from your lips are ‘yes’ and ‘how fast?’ And if I so much as smell the whiff of another prank…”

  “I’m fired. I get it.”

  “No. It’ll be way worse than that.” The intensity of his expression made me shiver. “Do we have a deal?”

  The list of things I’d rather do than be at this man’s mercy was a million miles long. Now that he knew what I’d done to him, he’d make my life hell.

  Still, based on the initial job-scoping I’d done the night before, I knew it’d be hard to get a new job without a solid reference. Plus the gap would be hell on my finances.

  It was only a few weeks. I could keep my head down. Avoid him, probably. He’d be so busy with real work I might never see him.

  Looking into his cool eyes, I knew that particular wish wasn’t likely to come true.

  “Fine.”

  Avery reached for the phone on his desk, a grim smile on his face as he hit a button.

  “Mallory, I have someone for your project team. Yes. She’ll do anything.”

  6

  It Was Jerry. In the Jefferson Room. With a Stapler

  Dickwad: Since you don’t answer emails reliably, I’ll be sending texts. Accounting is conducting a review of expenses in light of the previous CEO’s indiscretions. They want annotated claims going back eighteen months. Electronically. There’s a stack on your desk that need to be processed and scanned. By end of day.