That was on her for being a Type Nine Enneagram. Pleasing people made her good at her job. She made it look so easy: perfectly content to stuff envelopes and coordinate meetings and plan luncheons. Never a bad temper. Never a hair out place.
But being here, on this island, stabbing her fork into a peri-peri prawn and sipping sauvignon blanc with her pinky raised? Uncharted territory.
Across the table, Waylon sized her up. A blond curl dripped over his eyebrow, and his shirt stuck to him in wet patches from his evening splash. “So nice of you to finally join us, Spence.” As ifhewasn’t the reason she had to go upstairs to change. “Don’t worry, you still got the best view at the table.”
Fletcher scowled. Simmered. “I’ve seen better.”
Butting in obliviously, Sheila said, “Oh my god. No way. The views on this island areinsane. Like, why have I never come here before?”
Waylon didn’t take his eyes off Fletcher as he said, “Usually this is the kind of place you have to be invited to.”
Before she could think better of it, Fletcher nudged Waylon’s foot beneath the table with the pointed toe of her shoe. He dropped his knife in surprise, the sound ringing loudly over the small talk. Fletcher stifled her amusement as Dyer reprimanded him with a stiff glare.
“Luckily for Sheila,” Fletcher said between bites, “her hard work is finally being recognized.”
“And what hard work is that? Push any more unsuspecting victims into a champagne tower lately?” Waylon stepped on Fletcher’stoe. He grinned, a cocky sidelong thing. If he scuffed her shoes, he was dead meat.
“I—Sheilawas trying to stop you from getting her fired by causing a scene in front of that reporter. She didn’t push you into it on purpose.” Waylon winced as she retaliated with a swift kick to his shin. “It’s not her fault you were drunk.”
“I had three drinks. That hardly qualifies as inebriated.”
“The cover ofPeoplewould beg to differ.”
Waylon caught one of Fletcher’s ankles between his calves. She wiggled, but it was no use. The more she thrashed, the tighter his legs cinched.
Her glare said,Cut it out.
His answered,You started it.
“Is there something under there? What is going on?” Sheila asked, ducking her head beneath the table. Fletcher snapped her foot out of Waylon’s death grip before they could get caught playing angry footsie.
She ignored the intern. Never once let her death stare leave Waylon’s. “Sheiladeserves to be here as much as everyone else.”
“I have no idea what you two are talking about, and I’ve been quiet quitting for months.” Sheila turned to her, fair cheeks pink from wine she was too young to legally drink in America. “But thanks, Fifi. I know the others disagree, but I’m glad you came back.”
“Back?” Fletcher asked, stomach sinking.
“Honestly, when you were late to dinner, I thought maybe you’d called the jet to go home.”
“Why would I do that?”
Sheila’s expression grew doe-like. “Oh! I didn’t mean it in a bad way. It’s just…”
Bertram cleared his throat a couple seats down. “You have no business being here.”
At that, her half of the table quieted. Churlish looks stretched toward Fletcher, and it took all her strength not to push her food around her plate, just to look busy. Waylon’s gaze settled on her, heaviest of all. She braced for anI told you so, but he took another bite, his mouth too occupied with chewing to continue ridiculing her.
Bertram’s beetle-black eyes inspected her.Scrutinizedher. Searched for flaws he could extort. The disdain in his tone was palpable when he said, “You aren’t a top performer. You are an assistant. There is no place for you here.”
All Fletcher could do was blink. And stare. And blink some more.
This wasn’t one of Waylon’s underhanded jabs. There was no volley of insults, no silver-tongued back-and-forth. Waylon may have set the trap, but he didn’t have to strike the killing blow. When she looked around, everyone’s hands had frozen halfway to their mouths. Bertram had simply said what they were all thinking.
Fletcher hated to admit it, but on one hand, Bertram was right.
There was no denying she’d eked her way onto the island, hedging her bets and playing her only card at the right moment. A trick she’d learned from Dyer.
And on the other hand, Bertram had a stick so far up his ass it could scratch his brain.
