Chapter 3
Fletcher wasn’t sure which hurt worse: the throbbing in her skull after a weeknight out or that Waylon was right about her.
She didn’t sleep last night so much as she ruminated.
Waylon’s taunting echoed through her brain until the blue hours of the morning.
When she finally dragged herself into the office, everything was exactly the same.
She was still getting evicted, she and Kent were still broken up, and she still wasn’t invited to Lydell.
Her booze-soaked vow weighed heavy on her mind.
Every time she’d tried to talk to Dyer about the invitations, the words died a slow, stammering death, somewhere between her clavicle and her uvula.
She first tried that morning, a steaming mug of doctor-ordered reishi coffee in her hand.
Then again after the Ops touch base where she’d copied forty-six thousand memos that all promptly ended up crushed and in the wastebin.
Over and over and over, failing to find the right words as October’s crisp oranges faded into November grays.
Finally, the Friday before the trip, Fletcher couldn’t take it anymore. She jabbed her fork at her lo mein. You do what you’re told, Spence. Another stab, twisting this time. It makes you a good receptionist.
Next to her, Ford eyed her violent fork. “You good?”
No, but Fletcher’s mouth said, “Yes.”
She had only two weeks left to figure out a new living situation, but the pile of rejected apartment applications in her inbox nauseated her. Or maybe that was lunch. Did she even like lo mein?
She and Ford had become friends shortly after she’d gotten hired.
Turned out, the secret to making friends into adulthood was to body-slam into them, destroying a pistachio muffin in the process.
He offered to buy her lunch to replace her sad, smashed pastry, and they’d been grabbing lunch together ever since.
Sometimes Sweetgreen, sometimes dollar pizza from a place that also did pedicures, but most of the time they ended up with Szechuan’s.
Two orders of combination lo mein, his recommendation, and she’d never ordered anything else.
Was she predictable? A pushover?
Waylon burrowed in her head. Taunting her. Fletcher pinched her eyes closed, shutting down the thoughts.
The Design Lab door swung open, and Joplin, a pink-haired senior designer, walked in, headphones over her ears. Fletcher lowered her voice when she said, “I only have two weeks until my apartment gets makeover-montaged into a Saks, and every time I try to talk to Dyer about Lydell, I choke.”
“I already said you could crash with me,” Ford said.
“Yes, but have you considered that I actually don’t want to hear you and—what was his name again?”
Ford’s nails tapped his chin. “Ricky. I think.”
“—Hear you and Ricky, I Think ravishing each other until daybreak.” Fletcher pushed her take-out box away from her, forehead sinking against the table.
“Then do something about it.”
Fletcher lolled her head to one side. She scraped open her left eyelid. “I’m out of somethings.”
Ford leaned his head on the table to meet her eyes. Or eye, technically. “What are you talking about? You’re Fletcher Spence. You could run this company in your sleep, and you’re always one step ahead. If you can’t figure out a way, no one can.”
Fletcher scoffed. Then, like clockwork, Dyer rang, and she was dragged back to her desk. But a crop seed had been planted, and it took root the rest of the day. While she scanned expense reports, while she updated Dyer’s calendar, while she organized meeting notes.
Which was how she ended up at LaGuardia at 6:07 the next morning in her best (okay, only) pumps.
A vicious wind tore at the threads of her copper braid, and she braced her arms against her chest for warmth.
Dyer’s behemoth of a jet had been taxied over, but the team was nowhere to be found. None of this surprised Fletcher.
T-minus 87 seconds before the cars pulled in, twenty minutes to board and prepare the plane, and twenty-three hours in the air before the landing gear cranked out for arrival.
Maybe reciting the itinerary in her sleep could be Fletcher’s party trick.
Assuming Dyer let her attend the party.
The headlights of three black SUVs sliced across the tarmac right on cue.
Fletcher roped her thrifted Longchamp bag over the handle of her rolling suitcase, centering herself.
Familiar figures climbed out of the cars, varying sizes of to-go lattes clutched in their hands, as shiny-vested worker bees migrated luggage onto the jet.
None of her coworkers dressed like they were going to a private island—all tailored blazers and starched shirts. Fletcher wasn’t much better. Her pencil skirt was, like, 70 percent rayon and 100 percent overdressed for the Southern Hemisphere summer they were headed toward.
At the back of the pack, Dyer took slow, deliberate steps with the rest of the C-suite, their heads craned together conspiratorially. Today, he wore an ecru suit with a pale blue shirt, the top unbuttoned, and wing tip loafers. His grandfather’s ivory cane tapped against the asphalt.
Fueled by caffeine and spite, Fletcher marched across the tarmac.
One flash of her Cartwright Media badge had been all it took to get access to their terminal. Turned out, there were a few perks to being Dyer Cartwright’s right-hand woman. She was going to walk straight up to Dyer, and she was going to give him a piece of her—
“Miss Spence,” he said casually. “Enjoying your morning?”
Fletcher’s eyes widened, but she trained her voice to stay even. To sound like she definitely wasn’t surprised at how unsurprised he was by her being here. “Yes, thank you. And you?”
“Delightful.” He nudged his glasses back up his nose. The others finished boarding, leaving Dyer and Fletcher alone on the runway. “I don’t recall extending you an invitation.”
“Um, that’s…true.” Panic clenched Fletcher’s heart. The whole speech she’d practiced about her infallible work ethic and devotion to the company? Vaporized from her memory.
Wreathed in dawn’s muted gray and the flashing airport lights, Dyer’s clip didn’t slow on her behalf. “Why are you here?”
“To go to Lydell.” She really shouldn’t have pounded that Americano before she came over. The lights started to swim. Her pulse did laps around 100 bpm.
Dyer nodded. An acknowledgment more than a consideration. Fletcher had seen that look on his face plenty of times before.
Something about the familiarity settled Fletcher’s stomach. This was part of her job. And even if the rest of Fletcher’s life was falling apart, she could do her job. “In the three years I’ve been with Cartwright Media, I believe I’ve proven myself an invaluable asset to the team.”
Nodding, Dyer didn’t hesitate. “Most certainly.”
She reached into her bag and snagged her Canon. “You know how much I love Jet-Setter. Taking photos for your grandfather’s magazine is my dream. I’ll do whatever it takes to prove I can join the staff. I’m a good assistant, but I could be a better photographer.”
“That’s where you’re wrong,” Dyer said.
“I’m sorry?”
“You’re an excellent assistant. Have you considered I’m not ready to say goodbye to you?”
Well, no. She hadn’t.
Dyer pivoted. The sudden severity of his stare stopped Fletcher in her tracks.
“I’ve got to give it to you. You’ve got gumption. I’ve always appreciated that about you, Miss Spence. You wouldn’t have lasted a second at my company without it.”
Her thoughts spun. Gumption was good, right? He wasn’t firing her. Right?
“It’s one of the many traits I look for in new hires. Tenacity. Determination.”
Yes. Yes. Finally, she was being recognized.
Dyer stroked his chin. “Interesting indeed.”
“I could take photos,” she said, clutching her camera to her chest. “Document the trip. For my portfolio. You don’t have to decide now—all I’m asking for is the chance.”
“Oh, that…” A hum. His steel-enforced gaze trained on her camera. “I’m afraid that would be quite burdensome.”
Before she could stop him, Dyer hooked his cane around Fletcher’s camera and swatted it to the pavement. He dug his heel into the lens with a horrifying metallic crunch. Fletcher sucked down a single gasp, shock coiling at the base of her throat.
She reached for the body of the camera—thank god she packed a spare 55 mm lens—but Dyer’s cane hammered down once more against the viewfinder.
Again and again and again. Narrowly missing her fingers as she tried to salvage it.
The razored edge of a glass shard pricked her thumb, one long slice down the pad.
Copper stained her tongue as she sucked the blood away. Only then did the cane still.
“My dearest apologies,” Dyer said insincerely as he loomed over her. “Perhaps I’ve overreacted.”
No, Dyer Cartwright never overreacted. He calculated every move and countermove. A conductor for his own symphony, a grand master in his own game.
A hot flare of embarrassment slashed across her cheeks. Was everyone watching, faces pressed to their windows? She wouldn’t cry. She would not cry. This was a test. A test she was determined to ace.
For months during college, she had set aside half her work-study paycheck to upgrade from her point-and-shoot to a real DSLR.
And then Dyer hired her, and her hours were filled with scanning memos and making dinner reservations and coordinating travel, running around until her budget pumps left festering blisters on her heels.
But the dream never wavered—Photo by Fletcher Spence. Now the prospect of a byline had been reduced to a bludgeoned pulp.
Dyer crouched next to her, his arthritic knees popping on the way down. It did nothing to lessen the chill that crawled under Fletcher’s skin, slithering around her skeleton, as he pressed the cane’s ivory handle beneath her chin so that she had nowhere to look but at him.