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It will involve a little number crunching, some smooth talking, and charming the stubborn, nerdy founders into seeing why they should merge with a corporate giant like us. This project, it’s my opportunity to score a touchdown, a chance to move from the sidelines to the heart of the game around here.
I'm the fucking underdog about to make it to the big leagues.
And I'm going to be doing this project my own way—with a bit of that Logan zest. I'm going to layer every presentation with wit, every meeting with charm, and every negotiation with a dash of "Did he really fucking say that?" I want them to see that beneath the laidback suit, there’s a hell of a lot of ambition ready to break loose.
And God, it feels good.
It's about damn time they understand that I'm not another Richy Rich playing office. I'm ready to show them there's more to Logan than they all fucking think, and I'll do it with a smile on my face.
One by one, the remaining marketers, and tech nerds clock out, leaving me in the fluorescent-lit labyrinth. I crane my neck from behind the glass wall of my office and realize that there are only two creatures left in the wilderness—me and the night janitor.
Man, I could use a caffeine kick.
I leave my papers scattered on the desk and head for the coffee station. The janitor, an older guy named Morty, is there, polishing the granite countertops.
"Morty." I pour myself a hot black coffee. "Did you hear about the coffee machine that filed a police report? It got mugged!" I wait for the laugh track to start. But Morty only continues cleaning, unfazed.
"Tough crowd," I mutter under my breath, attempting to shake off the surprising silence following my joke. I glance at Morty, who raises an eyebrow before getting back to his work.
I find my way back to my desk and hunch over it. My eyes are glued to the glowing screen before me. The numbers, the graphs, the charts, they're all starting to blur together. I've worked with numbers before, but this... this is a whole new level of complexity. My brows narrow further as I attempt to make sense of the financial forecast. I'm usually unfazed by work, but right now, I can feel the frustration bubbling up within me. An annoyance that's quickly turning into full-blown anger.
Leaning back in my chair, I run a hand through my hair, a sigh escaping my lips.
"Fuck," I mutter to myself, "this is harder than I thought."
It's just some fucking numbers, Logan.
I'm not going to let a little number-crunching get to me.
No, sir. I'm Logan.
I always find a way.
The sound of the elevator dings.
Who the fuck is coming into the office this late? It's 8:20 p.m.
I glance at the reflection in the glass wall and see who it is.
Of course...
It's Bailey.
I try to mask my frustration.
I can't let her see me like this.
She walks into the office, her eyes widening as she sees me still at my desk.
"Still here, Logan?" She attempts a smirk, but her exhaustion gives her away. Her bun is messy and dark circles are under her eyes. Clearly, she's had a long day.
"Can't let you have all the fun, can I?" I keep a casual tone despite my raging insides. I lean back in my chair, trying to exude the chill demeanor I've perfected over the years. But damn, those numbers are still buzzing in my brain, taunting me.
I notice her trying to hold back a yawn, and I feel something weird.
Is that concern?
What the fuck?
