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I stay put, giving her and my father a minute to make their way down the hall without me, adjust my tie, and take a deep breath.
Greer, my mind rumbles.
If she wants a battle, I’ll give her a damn war.
Greer
Nerves jump up and down in my stomach like a million chaotic bouncy balls set to work by a bunch of manic kids. I am freaking the fuck out.
The green-eyed, good-bodied, trash-talker from the gym is my boss.
As in, in charge of me at work.
As in, signs my paychecks.
As in, he is the only thing standing between me and a new job at the Stop and Pop gas station where I will have to drown my life’s failures in cheap beer, cigarettes, and cheesy curls.
I don’t even smoke, never even let a cigarette touch my lips, but from where I stand, a life filled with dirty ashtrays and cheese-stained fingertips is a strong contender for my future.
Holy bitchtits. This is bad.
And like a spoiled high schooler who actually has parents who pay for all of their stuff—like a woman who doesn’t have everything on the line—I gave him attitude. I talked back. I dug my fingernails into his hand when he shook it.
What the hell is wrong with me?
My breathing kicks up a notch, and I glance around the conference room to see if anyone has noticed how close I am to hyperventilating. After my altercation with his son and with my heart beating a million miles a minute, Trent Senior led the way down the hall and into this room. I’m sure employees made eye contact with me, but the only thing I could see was my career going up in flames.
Five people other than me circle the large marble table in the center of the room, not a single one of them a woman.
I’m the only hen at this cock party, and that spurs my anxiety further.
The reality of what I’m up against crashes down on me all over again, and my breathing breaks down into uncoordinated gulps.
I study the faces around me, but they’re all ensconced in their own conversations and unconcerned with me.
Desperate for a lifeline, I scour the refreshment cart in the corner, but there’s not one paper bag for hyperventilation purposes in sight. I can only hope I weather this storm on my own.
Breathing may sound instinctive, but I wouldn’t put it past myself to forget to do it. And I do not want to be known as the woman who passed out on her first day for the rest of my employment with Turner Properties.
In a room full of men, I refuse to be the fainting to the floor, fucking damsel in distress.
Especially not when one of those men is that rude, bastard prick from the gym.
Trent Turner. Well, Trent Turner Junior, I guess is his full name.
If I weren’t so amped up on anxiety and dread, I might take the time to laugh silently at the fact that his full name includes Junior. Like he’s a little boy. A fucking kid.
Unfortunately for me, his tight muscles and sexy jawline and piercing green eyes are the exact opposite of what a boy should look like.
No sirree Bob, he is all man, Greer. All-fucking-man.
Pfft. Whatever. The fact remains that he’s a Grade A asshole.
The titter of conversation dims as the green-eyed devil himself steps inside the glass-walled conference room and shuts the door. I didn’t get the chance to really take him in when he bumped into me before, but as a mere member of the crowd, I more than have the chance now.
His suit is pressed and a crisp black in a way that isn’t maintainable without a hefty dry-cleaning bill. Below the edge of his jacket sleeves, the white of his shirt cuffs sticks out ever so slightly, and a shiny silver clip holds the emerald green of his tie in place.
It matches his eyes almost perfectly, and my knees feel weak. I’m almost certain the two are completely unrelated.
“Hello, everyone,” he greets simply, and we all respond with nods and hellos of our own. At least, everyone else does.
For some reason, I’m having a hard time forcing the civil exchange past my lips, and my hello comes out more like a stuttered “e-low.”
What is it about him that rubs me so wrong? I mean, I barely met the guy the other day. It’s not like we’ve got some long-standing rivalry that dates back to pigtail-pulling and shoves on the playground.
He poked fun at me. Big deal.
It shouldn’t be a big deal.
It is, though. I feel the weight of my agitation toward him deep in my gut, right next to the two mini donuts I shouldn’t have shoved down my throat in the employee break room.
It’s burning and achy, and I don’t recognize it at all. For the greater part of the last five years, my emotions have avoided the extremes. If I were to make a line graph to represent myself, Greer’s numbness would be a great big tick mark right across the middle.
