Page 5

"Come back tomorrow morning at nine. I'd still like to interview you."

"For the coordinator position?"

"For an interview," I clarify. "Your qualifications deserve a fair review, regardless of the position. And I can assure you Hannah won't be making that decision."

"After today, I'm not exactly eager to throw myself at this company."

I can't fault her for that.

"Reasonable."

She studies me for a moment, clearly not expecting the answer.

"You really think I should come back?"

"I wouldn't have asked if I didn't. Send your résumé to my office before tomorrow morning; I'd like to review it myself."

She considers that for a moment before giving me a reluctant nod. It's not a commitment, but it's enough.

Most applicants leave this building eager to impress. Sloane Harper looks like she's still deciding whether we're worth her time. Finally, after giving me one last assessing look, she heads for the doors, and I watch her disappear into the crowd outside.

I head for the parking garage, determined to get some food into Nate before that stubborn bastard works himself into an early grave.

And once he's eaten, we need to talk about Sloane Harper.

I'm already preparing for the argument Nate is bound to give me. That man builds systems to eliminate variables, and Sloane is one he won't see coming.

Good.

It's time something shook this place up.

two

Fault Lines

By the time I make it through Trey's front door, I'm two seconds away from throwing these damn heels in the trash.

My purse hits the floor, and I kick off the three-inch torture devices I've spent most of the day regretting.

"That bad, huh?" My roommate calls out from the kitchen. The scent of butter and garlic wafts through the apartment. "And here I thought you'd be celebrating."

"Celebrating what? The fact that I survived corporate America's version of the Hunger Games?" My blazer slides off my shoulders and lands in a heap on his vintage couch.

Trey emerges from the kitchen like he's making his grand entrance on RuPaul's Drag Race, silk robe cinched at the waist and a glass of wine in his hand. Knowing him, that glass probably cost more than my entire outfit.

He gives me one look. "Spill it, honey. Tell TiTi Trey all about it."

I drop onto the couch and pull a pillow into my lap, telling him everything. I start with the rude-ass receptionist and her ridiculous comments about SOLAÉ's image, then move on to Elias Baptiste, who looked like he could bench-press a car without wrinkling his tailored suit.

"Hold on." Trey perches on the arm of the couch. "You went toe-to-toe with Racist Barbie, had some fine-ass corporate assassin step in, and he offered you an interview?"

"That's what I just said."

"Then why the hell are you sitting on my couch? Girl, go secure that bag." He takes another sip of wine. "And maybe his number while you're at it."

"Trey, please. The man probably spends his free time interrogating investment bankers and tearing phone books in half. I'm not even on his radar."

Trey takes a pointed sip.