She pointed at his chest and sliced her hand across her throat. Message clear:Get out.
He crossed his arms flat against his worn white shirt and shrugged. His message was unfortunately also clear:My dad signs your measly paycheck, so I’ll do whatever I want, whenever I want, in whoever’s office I want.
Fletcher scowled, trying to ignore the metal taste in her mouth she got whenever he was around, as he kicked his feet onto Dyer’s desk. God, she hated him.
“Miss Spence?” Dyer was saying on the other end of the phone line, and Fletcher snapped back to their conversation.
“Yes,” she said quickly. “Yes, of course. I’ll make sure Melv comes up.”
“Good,” Dyer said before brusquely hanging up. That usually meant he was exactly thirty-six seconds from the elevator door opening, which meant Fletcher had exactly thirty-six seconds to figure out what the hell was going on.
Fletcherneverforgot a meeting.
And certainly not a meeting with Dyer’s only son. Waylon hadn’t stepped foot in the Cartwright Media offices in three years. She’dhad the misfortune of meeting him only once before, but it was not a meeting easily forgotten—or forgiven.
She hated him. And he hated her right back.
“Fletcher Spence. Don’t you ever get tired of cleaning up my dad’s messes?” Waylon asked, one foot wagging back and forth. That desk cost more than Fletcher’s whole apartment building—he had better not leave scuff marks on it.
“No,” Fletcher said through gritted teeth, even if she really meantyes.
Yes, she wished she were downstairs, poring over upcoming editions ofJet-Setter.
Yes, she took this job only because being Dyer’s executive assistant was as close as she could get to working for her dream magazine without a dazzling photography portfolio.
And yes, if she was going to bust her ass at work every day, it would be way,waybetter if she got to do it on photo shoots in far-off locations.
Not that she’d be sayingthatout loud to Waylon.
A mischievous gleam flared in his eye, like he knew exactly which buttons to press and had every intention of pressing them. “You know, you really ought to be at your desk to welcome guests when Dyer has an appointment.”
Fletcher fought to keep her practiced composure. She’d rather get a colonoscopy wide-awake than admit he’d surprised her. “I don’t come into your work and tell you how to pour lukewarm beer for kids with fake IDs, so feel free to keep your opinions to yourself.”
If the tabloids were to be believed, Waylon spent the last three years slinging shots at some Brooklyn dive bar, role-playing middle class to spite his father. Mostly, Fletcher tried to forget he existed.
She spotted a pink sticky note underneath his boot—the Lydell guest list. When she tugged the pressboard folder the Post-it wasattached to, it didn’t budge, and neither did Waylon’s paperweight of a foot. Three years, and he was still the jerkiest jerk to ever exist.
“Aren’t you a pleasure to have in class,” Waylon said—a statement instead of a question. He flipped a pen in the air and caught it. Settling in for the long haul. “You have a terrible bluff, by the way.”
“Is that so?”
His blue eyes were asking for trouble. Everywhere they lingered, Fletcher turned hot. “It is so.”
Her eyebrow raised in disbelief. Because despite him being an annoying wrinkle in her afternoon, she was objectively very,verygood at her job. Exhibit A: Dyer was going to walk through the door in three, two, one…
“Did you find the approved guest list?” That voice could belong to only one person.
Her boss emitted the same chaotic neutral energy as Colonel Mustard. His sleek silver hair had been combed back so curls lined the base of his neck. Today, he wore a pressed navy suit paired with loafers Fletcher paid someone—using Dyer’s pocketbook—to shine. Age curved his spine, but Dyer stood nearly eye to eye with Waylon once the younger kicked himself upright to shake his father’s hand. The movement was stiff, unnatural.
As soon as Waylon moved, Fletcher snatched the guest list off the desk. Only barely did she refrain from waving it in Waylon’s face like a checkered victory flag.
“Yes, sir. Got it right here,” she answered Dyer’s question.
The Lydell trip was the biggest Cartwright event of the year: a weeklong off-site on one of Dyer’s private islands, a crescent-shaped sliver of land off the coast of Madagascar, where Dyer packed up the company’s top performers to make deals and dole out promotions.
Fletcher had orchestrated everything perfectly. A perfectly scheduled itinerary, perfectly folded white cloth napkins in the shapeof delicate swans, and a perfectly curated guest list that would include Fletcher’s name squeezed in at the bottom. Her ticket to a new position at the company after three years.
Three years of seventy-hour weeks. Of counting emails instead of sheep and waking to nightmares of missed meetings. Of working twice as hard for half the recognition. She’d lost count of how many lunches she’d spent proofing upcoming issues over subpar takeout or how many Saturday mornings she’d filed expense reports in an empty office.
