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I secretly wish I made my coffee Irish this morning.
“Tell them I’ll be there in a minute. I’ll drop my things off and head over there,” I instruct Marge as I enter my office.
I mentally prepare for the onslaught of bullshit I’ll have to go through in the next hour—across from her.
I’m not afraid of losing my job. Hell, if I get fired, she should as well. It was her mouth that started that sparked this feud.
Thinking of her, sitting there, and waiting for me—I start to get jittery.
Again, I’m like a hormonal boy. I can’t help it.
Every time I see her, I get these fucking man-butterflies, and it’s irritating.
But I have to shake this off. I need to bury these old pestering feelings before she eats me alive. I’m sure her teeth are already sharpened.
Grabbing my coffee, laptop, and phone, I head down the hall to the conference room. I can see the whole line-up through the glass walls—all ten suits and one damn fine dress.
I swallow hard and take a deep breath before I open the door. Thankfully, the surge of adrenaline smothers my headache.
“Good morning, gentlemen and Elsa. To what do I owe this honor?” I ask, putting on my most professional and charming smile to win the crowd.
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Mark, the man who emailed me earlier, clears his throat.
“Your sideshow the other night, Tanner, was unacceptable.”
Damn, getting right to it, isn’t he?
“How so?” I say sarcastically.
I’m not an idiot. I know what I did would cause some waves. It wasn’t the most professional act, although it was the most reasonable response to Elsa’s formal attack.
“I’m not sure where to begin or how else to describe it to you. But to summarize, your actions do not represent who we are as a company.”
Fuck. This doesn’t sound like a slap on the wrist type of conversation.
But there’s no way in hell that I’ll be the only one held responsible for this. If I go down, she’ll go down with me. Petty or not.
“I see. You must understand that my business decision was in response to a defamatory statement made by Elsa.”
I glare at her, throwing fucking daggers straight at her direction.
Her eyes widen in shock, possibly surprised that I told on her, and her cheeks redden.
From anger, I’m assuming.
She looks pissed, though I can feel her body gravitate toward me.
I gaze down at her tits, not hiding my wandering eyes, and her nipples harden underneath the cream-colored Michael Kors dress.
Yes, I know designers—I am one, after all. I would be a fraud if I didn’t know what a Michael Kors dress looks like.
Mark slams his fist on the table, and my attention is immediately redirected.
Fuck, he’s fuming. I think I almost see steam coming out of his ears.
“I don’t care who started this feud. All I know—all that we know,” he says, gesturing to the other ten suits in the room, “is that this will end now.”
