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I am no longer a shower-avoidant, lair-dwelling, loner wordsmith. I’m a social creature who leaves my apartment every day, works hard at two jobs I’m enjoying the heck out of—finance on the clock and investigative journalism on the sly—and I’m dating the man of my dreams.
Jack and Iaredating. We haven’t said the words or slapped on labels, but the way he touches me, the way we laugh together, the way we can’t keep our hands off of each other no matter where we are or whether or not I’m wearing a fake mustache at the time—all signs point to a swiftly developing relationship.
Maybe even a serious one.
I mean… Christmas together in the Rockies? If that’s not boyfriend-girlfriend-level stuff right there, I don’t know what is. Since our “retreat” last week, we’ve been spending even more time together, stealing away to his apartment or mine after work, sneaking in flirty texts or calls, diving deeper into the waters of intimacy than I ever have before. Especially this early in a relationship.
But I’m not scared. Or anxious. I’m just…happy.
Jack makes me happy. I like who I am when I’m with him and who he is when he’s with me and how the world looks when his hand is in mine and the taste of him lingers on my lips.
And yes, he also makes meseriouslyhorny. Crazy horny. Legendary levels of epic horn-dossity.
The thought inspires a full-body shiver I can’t suppress, even though I’m in an elevator full of suits headed back up to the office from lunch. Good—let them think I’m lacking the manliness to suppress displays of bodily weakness. I’m too filled with excitement (and yes, maybe a touch of terror) to care.
As much as I want to dwell only on the positive, there are mountains left to climb before we run away to frolic in the Rockies.
Sooner or later—like, before Christmas—Jack and I are going to have to give this thing a name, come out of the closet, and figure out what to tell my brother—who, there’s no doubt in my mind, isnotgoing to be happy that Jack and I are hooking up.
I’m almost ashamed of how happy I am, especially considering the fresh dirt I keep uncovering on S&H and hownot greatthis company is going to come across in my article if I’m not careful. Which is a shame because there are so many good things happening here, too—great things—and dozens of amazing people doing their best to make responsible and creative financial choices for their clients.
Yes, S&H has flaws and failings, but they’re the same flaws and failings so many companies struggle with. They’re all going to experience growing pains, and at least Ryan and Jack are open to evolving.
Eagerto evolve, in fact.
It’s what I keep repeating to myself when I get anxiety sweats while I’m pouring over the detailed database records. Jack and Ryanwantto know. They want to change.
They want to stop things like the scene unfolding this morning in the far corner of the office.
“Sorry isn’t good enough anymore, Ms. Rivera.” Will Pool, Lulu’s pompous, moldy human potato of an advisor, talks loud enough to ensure the people showering in the gym downstairs can hear him. “If you leave this office again without bringing in a doctor’s note for yourdeathlyill son, we’re going to have to let you go.”
The stricken look on Lulu’s face is all the convincing I need to start across the room.
“Please, Mr. Pool,” Lulu says in a much softer voice. “My son isn’t deathly ill. I told you sir, he—”
“Then why do you keep leaving?” Will cuts in with a condescending sigh. “You say you can’t live without this job, and yet you keep making excuses to go home before your work is done.”
“They’re not excuses, sir.” There are tears in Lulu’s eyes now, but I can tell she’s fighting them with everything in her. “It’s my son’s school. They have a zero-tolerance policy for—”
“My tolerance is close to zero at this point, as well.” Will’s upper lip curls into a sneer. “If you leave today without that note, don’t bother returning.”
“But… I have to pick up my son. He’s mychild. I can’t just leave him.”
“Of course not.” Will nods curtly, as if the matter is settled. “Go ahead and pack up your personal belongings. You’ll need to turn in your employee ID card before you leave. Your email and database access will be terminated immediately.”
“Are you firing me?” Lulu’s voice is shaky, her shoulders sagging with the weight of this awful news.
“Mr. Pool, why don’t we take this to a conference room for further discussion,” I suggest, coming to stand in front of Lulu, shielding her from some of the prying eyes watching this train wreck unfold. “Preferably with Mr. Holt involved. I’ve been talking with Lulu about her situation and I—”
“And the last time I checked, Mr. Webb,” a sharp voice cuts in, “you’re neither Lulu’s supervisor nor a member of HR, so I’m not sure what your interest is here.”
I turn to see Blair—the human splinter stabbing deep into the tender flesh of my otherwise copacetic new life—coming in fast from my right, inspiring in me the irrational urge to grab Lulu by the hand and make a break for it.
But this kind of trouble isn’t something either of us can run from, so I roll my shoulders back and stand my ground.
“No, I’m not part of HR,” I admit coolly. “But the Federal Family and Medical Leave Act entitles employees to up to twelve weeks of leave to take care of sick relatives without losing their jobs. Lulu’s son has food sensitivity issues that require Occupational Therapy, but due to the demands of her job, she hasn’t been able to get him to his appointments.”
I glance at Lulu, who nods eagerly, seemingly emboldened by my presence. She’s not alone in this, and I refuse to let her or anyone else be bullied and intimidated.
