Chapter 5
CARLIE
Kill them, him, with kindness.
Millie’s idea that she spent two hours convincing me was my best option if I wanted to keep this job and have some way to work with Mr. Montana over there.
Yep, you bet your ass I Google-stalked this small-town redneck turned Mr. All-American Business.
Keep your enemies closer and all that.
I dump a basket of muffins and a large Starbucks coffee over the pink tape boundary and into enemy territory. Rawlins doesn’t bother looking up from his laptop, his big mitts flying over the keyboard.
Poor fucking keys . . .
Each swift stroke shifts the tendons across the back of his hands.
The pads of his fingers tapping with precise caresses.
Fuck a girl sideways.
I clear my throat. “Breakfast.”
I sink into my chair and open my laptop. What is he doing here so stinking early, anyway?
“Already ate,” he grunts, still not looking up.
Sorry, Mills, your strategy died in the water.
It’s only now I realize his hair is damp. A small duffel that looks like a gym bag sits to one side of his chair by the table leg.
So, I try again.
“Get a good workout in this morning, then?” I say, lacing the words with the sweetest tone I can muster.
Urgh, it feels like acid in my throat.
“Don’t work out on Tuesdays.” His eyes don’t leave the screen.
Okay, rude.
“Okay, I’ll bite, why is your hair wet?”
Now, he looks up. “It’s not wet.”
“Um, yeah it is. Did you walk through a storm on your way to work after your hearty breakfast?”
His jaw clenches before he says, “Nope.”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, this is me trying to play nice, Rawlins. Take it or leave it.”
“I don’t want your nice, Lamont. I want your professionalism. And cooperation.”
I shake my head and open my inbox, muttering, “Bet that gets all the girls wet.”
“Sorry, I missed that.”
“Good, you were supposed to.” I don’t let my eyes wander up to the deep blues I can feel burning into my face.
He wants to do this the hard way? The hard way it is.
“I need the budget projection for the next quarter by the end of the day.”
“Email a request.”
“I’m requesting it now.”
Without meeting my gaze, he sits back in his chair, loosening his tie as if that’s what’ll kill him. “In writing, remember?”
I hold up a finger, the universal signal for ‘please wait,’ and spin the office chair around to grab my tote. Inside is a large bag of my new stationery. This office is drab at best, a little more color is just what’s needed.
I haul the bag from where I stuffed it after leaving the store and take my time setting up my desk. An aesthetic of hot pink, pale pink, and cream and gold, until my half of the desk looks like a working girl’s paradise with gold accents.
Rawlins raises a brow over those stupid fucking blue eyes and presses his lips together.
“Get your own. If I find you stealing my stuff, I’ll have your balls.”
He huffs through a laugh. “Pink’s not my color, Princess.”
Heat floods my neck and face.
I hate that nickname. I hate everything it represents, from the ridiculous patriarchal system it stemmed from to the last person who called me that.
My dad.
Before he left with the fucking milk.
I stand and my chair rolls back, hitting the sideboard my bag sits on. “Don’t call me that.” I lean forward, planting my fists on either side of my laptop. “Ever.”
He holds his hands up in surrender, those blue eyes a little wider as he studies my face. Like he cares. Like he can figure out the wounds and baggage that make up Carlie Lamont. Like hell he’s getting a chance to find the chinks in my armor.
“End of day, Rawlins. Or the only communication you’ll be receiving in your precious inbox will be from Serelle.” My tone is harsh, the volume raised with my harried blood rushing through my head.
He frowns at me now.
Huh, who would have thought he would be the teacher’s pet . . .
Oh yeah, that’s right, I did.
I pegged him right the first time, damn suck-up.
He flicks his gaze to the side, looking outside this glass box we’re in. Like Ken and Barbie in a two-for-one box.
Mortified, I find the entire staff frozen, staring through said glass walls at the two of us. We’re literally in a fishbowl. A square glass enclosure made to house the shelters’ most expensive acquisitions, which apparently is not soundproof.
“Shit,” I breathe, dropping back into my seat.
That’s all I need, an audience.
“You’ll have it in writing before lunch, and I expect a quick turnaround, Rawlins.”
“Fine.” He straightens his tie and leans over the desk, stealing a muffin from the basket and sipping the coffee that’s probably lukewarm by now. “How’d you know apple cinnamon’s my favorite?”
He smiles his hideous megawatt grin at me before taking a bite. His Adam’s apple bobs, and he swallows a mouthful of coffee to wash down the bite before tossing the muffin in the trash can by the door as he leans down, coffee in hand still.
With a click of my mouse, I flick the email to his inbox. And the whoosh sounds from my laptop fills the room.
“Much better, Lamont. Following orders already.”
Ass!
The balls on this guy.
I catch the smuggest smile stretching his face as he pushes through the glass door and weaves through the sea of desks, chatting and saying hi to people as he goes.
Goddamn brownnoser.
How is he the people person in this office? That’s always been my card, the strength that found me in PR in the first place.
My laptop pings.
Reminder: Exec Meeting – Serelle.
Hell, that’s why he left. Shit.
I bite a muffin and swipe up my coffee and hightail it from the fishbowl and through the desks after Rawlins. But unlike his trip past the desks, nobody is chatting or stopping what they’re doing to say hello to me.
This is his angle?
Make everyone love him, so they hate me?
Rub my shortcomings in my face?
Right, Cowboy. Game on.
The pink sticky note that moves with the air funneling down from the central air system sticks to the top of his laptop.
I scroll through the last quarter’s marketing plan and PR notes. It’s not much to go on, but from what I can gather, the efforts were pretty minimal. And the health of the business sadly reflects that. That’s one thing Rawlins and I agree on, at least.
The telltale swoosh of a sent email sounds as I finish up a request for a meeting with Serelle to hash out some better, more effective ideas for the shelter. I mean, I could just go ahead and plan all this out—after receiving the budget, that is.
But I would rather know the lay of the land and what she’d like me to work on than get halfway through my grand plans, only to be shut down because it’s not what is usually done.
The glass door opens, and Rawlins walks to his desk, phone in hand, not looking away from the screen for a second. With only five minutes to lunch, I pin him with my gaze, waiting for him to find the pink sticky note.
My written request.
Email, my ass. He has it on his computer—in detail, no doubt—it would take less than a minute to copy and paste that section of his financial report and send it on.
“Can I help you?” he says, still not looking up from his phone.
“You can start by putting your personal business aside at work.”
He tosses his phone beside his laptop. “What, the coffee and muffins were from your other personality?”
My mouth gapes, and I snap it shut.
I will not lose my cool.
I will not lose my cool.
I will not lose my cool.
I point a manicured finger at the sticky note on his computer.
Running a hand through his brown hair that looks like it would feel like silk to sink my fingers into, he peels the note from his Mac.
“In writing, as requested,” I say with the most saccharine tone I can rouse in his vexing presence.
Looking up, he tilts his head as if considering something. Without a word, he crumples the sticky note in his fist and tosses it into the trash, making it in from his side of the desk.
Show off.
He rolls his chair forward and opens his computer. A few seconds later, my email pings.
Rawlins, Lawson - Request Denied.
“The fuck? This isn’t a game. I need those numbers, Rawlins.”
He stands, walking to the wall behind his side of the desk where a large whiteboard hangs on the wall. He starts writing up some sort of mind map, complete with figures from the original report we studied during onboarding.
I study him for a moment. Sleeves rolled up, marker scrawling across the shiny white surface as he brain-dumps notes beside each designated bubble.
And I would have to be dead not to notice his shirt straining over his shoulders and biceps, his tight, round ass . . .
Shit.
Annoyed and needing to get my own work done, I return to the last quarter planning and reports and open a fresh blank document. I create two subheadings, ‘old style’ and ‘Lamont style.’
I set two columns in the doc and save it to my personal drive just in case.
I have a ton of contacts from working for Carlson for ten years and good relationships with vendors and events people from all over the city.
Surely, since this is definitely a good cause, arranging promos and marketing events should be a breeze, right?
When I check out the shelter’s socials and website, my hope deflates.
The website is old, outdated, and houses almost nothing helpful for either women in need or potential donors.
This will all need to be overhauled. Which means another hit to the budget.
Let’s hope that it is substantial enough to cover the upgrades I know it’s going to require to move this place off the dire list and onto the thrive list.
I’m mid-hunt into my contacts for potential event ideas when my email pings. Hopeful, I flick over to the app. But my hope dies as quickly as it bloomed when it’s Serelle, confirming a meeting.
Starting in ten minutes.
Guess I’m winging it.
It would be great to have those numbers before I head in.
Maybe I can ask her for the reports, or where to find them.
Deciding it’s best to be early, I gather up my laptop and phone and head for the door.
When I reach Serelle’s office, Nadia is inside, singing the praises of none other than Rawlins.
God, this girl has it bad.
Guess that small-town charm of his works on this basic bitch.
Figures.
“Come in, Carlie. We’re done here.” Serelle waves me in.
Nadia gives me a tight smile as she slips past me and through the door. I sit in the chair and set my laptop and phone down.
“How’s your first week?” Serelle asks.
“Good. Fine.”
She smiles as if she knows something I don’t. “Excellent. What can I do for you?”
The meeting goes as I expected. She shows me where to find the reports but shuts down my better ideas in favor of more conservative ones.
Just what I was afraid of.
If her preferred tactics worked, they wouldn’t be scrambling each quarter. If it’s out of your comfort zone, it’s most likely what you’re supposed to aim for. Apparently, not everyone got that particular memo.
I make my way back to the fishbowl to find it vacant.
But as I push through the door and cross to the desk, I find a clutter of sticky notes—my pink sticky notes—stuck over my end of the table. Each one inscribed, in the most annoyingly neat cursive, with a category or department and the spending or budget.
The thought that sears through my mind hangs on the fact that Rawlins and his big mitts went rifling through my stuff.
The whiteboard is cleaned of his previous scribbling and diagrams. And in the center, an elegant short sentence in the same perfect cursive is handwritten on a slight angle in pink marker.
You’re welcome, Princess.
My marker, that currently stands on its end amidst the sticky notes plastering my desk like a lone knight amongst a sea of fallen fuchsia foe.
Fucking Rawlins.