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1
Brooke Alexander could always tell when she was about to be fired.
First, there was a certain tension in the air that she couldn’t quite define. Second, they gradually cut you out of meetings and communications until soon you felt like you were just occupying a space for forty hours a week. But none of it was confirmed until the day you actually showed up for work and nobody would look you in the eye.
Brooke stood and grabbed her way-too-colorful planner and matching purple ink pen. She’d gotten into planning on paper as a way to control the world around her, but it wouldn’t help today. Nope, not at all. She had just been summoned to the small conference room for her nine-a.m. firing.
“Confidence,” she whispered to herself as she exited her work area and headed down the aisle toward the big glass room. That was where Bob or Mike or James was sitting. She didn’t know the exact name of the person they’d brought in to handle this whole downsizing project, but she suspected it was someone with a spoiled Ivy League-graduate name like that.
As she headed toward her termination, she remembered the final indication. Nobody made eye contact with her. Even the guy from accounting who was rushing back to his desk from the restroom averted his gaze as he passed. Any other day, he’d look at her and give a bored smile. Today, everyone knew she was on the chopping block.
She saw him before she got to the door. That was the problem with these offices that had no walls or windows. You could see everything. Bob-Mike-James was seated at the table in a quarter-zip sweater. She’d expected a suit. Firing consultants usually wore suits on downsizing day.
She pulled open the door with her free hand and confidently strode inside. Whatever Bob-Mike-James was about to say, she wanted him to know from the jump that she was not afraid. She’d been fired four—count ‘em,four—times since moving to Silicon Valley two years ago. Granted, the first two times she’d only been working there a few months. The last two firings had been tough, though, because she’d thought she’d become a valuable part of the team.
“Brooke Alexander?” Bob-Mike-James asked.
Brooke nodded, pulled back the chair across from him, and sat down on it. She set her planner on the table, opened it up, and positioned her pen just above the page like she was prepared to jot down notes.
Yeah, it made no sense. It made her feel better, though, so she was going with it.
He cleared his throat. “As you know, TravTech is going through some changes.”
Brooke dared to look up at him then, and immediately regretted it. Bob-Mike-James was what most of her friends would easily callhot. As a group. As in, if he walked into their favorite bar at happy hour, they’d turn watching him into a sport. It seemed like a cruel joke that the person who was about to take away her only means of paying her rent was so distractingly gorgeous, but that was apparently the way this was going to go.
“Long overdue changes,” she blurted.
Wait. Where had that come from? She’d certainly been thinking it, but had she actually let those words spill from her mouth? In front of Bob-Mike-James?
He cocked his head, flashing her a curious expression. “What was that?”
Now it was her turn to clear her throat. “Nothing. Carry on.”
He shook his head. “No. It sounded like you had some important observations. I’d love to hear your thoughts.”
Was he actually asking her to give her thoughts during her termination meeting? Like, free advice or something? Then he’d no doubt take her observations to Justin Travers, Chief Dudebro around these parts, and pass them off as his own?
No. She shouldn’t do it. She shouldn’t give him ammunition. Her plan had been to walk in here, tell him he could skip the formalities and just tell her about her severance, and quickly pack her box up so she could be back at her apartment in time to take a nap. The sooner she could get all that out of the way, the sooner she’d be on her computer that afternoon, scouring the job boards for any openings for a semi-entry-level marketing associate.
“Private helicopters to CES, really?” she asked. “And the private suite at Oracle Park was a bit much. I know Justin Travers has to wine and dine clients, but we all know it’s just a way to show he’s better than his douchebag friends.”
She punctuated that statement with a roll of her eyes. Wow, did it feel good to get all that off her chest. She hadn’t realized just how much she’d been holding in until now.
The guy across from her arched his eyebrows, a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. He seemed to be fighting that smile, but it didn’t escape her notice. She was no fool. She knew exactly how to read that.
He agreed with her!
Brooke set her pen down on top of her planner and leaned forward, clasping her hands in front of her. “This company was given four million in seed funding,” she said. “Justin and his ‘management team’ blew through that in, what, a year? And what do they have to show for it? He’s supposed to be this well-educated guy with a super high I.Q., so explain that one.”
Now he leaned forward. “So, you don’t think Mr. Travers is very smart?”
Brooke bit her lip. Had she gone too far? She hadn’t meant to completely trash the guy. She’d never even met him.
Taking a deep breath, she decided to go in a different direction. “Look, I’ve been in this valley since graduation. I’ve seen some things. A lot of those things have been mistakes. It’s like watching someone heading straight for a big brick wall on a thousand-dollar electric scooter. You want to tell him to, ‘Watch out!’ but you know he won’t listen anyway, right?”
The man didn’t respond, but she had his rapt attention. Those big brown eyes were trained on her, and his expression was completely neutral. Not a hint of those dimples she’d glimpsed beneath all that stubble a few minutes ago.
“So…you feel like your boss made some mistakes.”
