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“He’s so sexy, isn’t he?” She puts her pointy purple nails to her chest and sighs. “I love a silent, powerful manly man.”
Isn’t Vanessa meant to be in HR?
I don't want to get on the wrong side of another person at this company within five minutes of starting, so I don’t question her questionable comment.
“He’s really… something,” I reply benignly instead of saying what I really want to say. Which is: “if a woman behaved like that in the workplace, everyone would assume she had PMS. But when a man does it, it’s consideredsexyandpowerful.”
Double standards are the worst. Especially when applied to men who refer to women as “Legs.”
Vanessa and I slide into a couple of empty chairs and the meeting is called to order. A man named Luke speaks first. He’s handsome, in a clean-cut, pearly white smile, Abercrombie and Fitch kind of way. A far cry from a certain moody, smoldering man sitting in my right peripheral.
I risk a glance at Liam across the table. He’s steely-eyed and clenching his jaw so tight, it tics. He’s also gripping a mug of black coffee (what a fitting drink for this man) with white knuckles. I’m amazed it doesn’t shatter.
I look down at my own cream-and-sugar-with-a-splash-of-coffee and take a careful sip as Luke speaks. I should be paying attention, I really should—he’s talking about their potential angel investor or something—but I’m completely out of sorts. My stomach is churning like I’m bobbing around in a barrel being swept towards the edge of Niagara Falls.
Think, Annie, think.
What would Brené Brown do? (W.W.B.B.D—a motto to live by)
I take a breath and try some positive thinking.
Maybe I won’t have to work with Liam directly; there are about ten of us in the room, and from what I can garner, we all represent different departments. The chances of our roles crossing over are small.
If the Wall Street Journal that Liam was reading on the plane is anything to go by, he’s probably in finance. Which means that I’ll never have to talk to him because not a single sane soul would trust me with anything finance-related.
Yeah, I deal with data. But actual money management? No way. My credit card statement is all the proof you could ever need to that effect. You’d think I was trying to seduce the UberEats guy with the amount I spend on pizza delivery.
I think back to the research I did on Stay Inside the Lines. I remember wearing a stained pair of sweatpants along with a freshly-pressed shirt while doing my Zoom interview. I remember emailing back and forth with Vanessa, and discussing lengthy, detailed contracts, and viewing an “About Us” page filled with pictures of the employees.
I don’t remember anything about Liam “Sexy” Donovan. Which he’s apparently known as around here.
My heart gives a hopeful leap. Maybe he’s new, too. Has started so recently that they haven’t even added him to the website. And if he’s not on the website, he hardly has the power to make my career go up in flames, right?
Pleased with my conclusion and now wanting confirmation, I tap Vanessa on the leg. “Psst.”
She turns her head, her long blond hair falling in a waterfall over one shoulder. “Yeah?”
“What does Liam do here?”
She looks at me like I’m a little simple. “Do?”
“Yeah, like what’s his job?”
She frowns. “Mr. Donovan owns the company.”
My jaw hits the floor.
Quite literally. I almost topple out of my chair.
“What?” I hiss when I finally recover. “He’s one ofThe Brothers?”
“Um, yeah.” Vanessa peers at me with a wrinkled nose and an expression that sayskeep up. Which I am obviously not doing, because this is insanity. “He’s THE brother. The OG.”
Shocked doesn’t even begin to cover how I’m feeling.
Not only is my weekend bed buddy—the one to whom I just said “nice of you to finally join us” all sassily—my new coworker, heownsthe company.
You can’t make this stuff up.
