Chapter 4 （B）
FOUR (B)
SAVANNAH
This Christmas
Manhattan, New York
Winter winds whip my face as I rush out of the custom silver store. I’m not sure why I decided to walk two city blocks instead of getting a town car, but I’m currently regretting that decision.
Then again, maybe I need the fresh air.
Now that West Media is one and a half weeks to the “prep-ceremony,” the office is in full holiday panic mode, and even though it unfolds in the exact same way every year, the pressure is still intense.
Executives from Disney, Netflix, and every cable company in the country fly in on their private jets to get on Mr. West’s “good side” because they know that we work on their platforms during the office party.
They attempt to woo him with exclusive trips to private golf retreats, millions of dollars under the table, and a few of them even offer up their private planes. Pilot included.
What they don’t know is that I’m the one they need to impress, and I’ve already decided on my advice to Mr. West. In addition to “Grow a fucking heart,” it’s “They’re all full of shit. Don’t make any special deals with them.”
By the time I make it to headquarters, my toes are frozen and my curls are dripping wet from a sudden onslaught of snow.
As I’m wiping my boots on the entry mats, I see Garrett talking to a Disney representative at the other end of the hall. He’s wearing a custom trench coat over his three-piece suit, and every woman who walks past him steals a second glance.
I’m tempted to yell out, “He’s a man-whore, don’t waste your time,” but I’ll save that for another day.
I hand the silver tray to the main receptionist, and then I decide to get my part in the Secret Santa game out of the way.
“Good afternoon, Miss Grey.” The security guard asks for my ID. “Here to pick out your lucky person?”
“There’s nothing lucky about this.” I frown. “Can I pay you a few hundred dollars to not participate in this? You could easily make the adjustment in your private spreadsheet and he would never know.”
“You think I’m willing to lose my job over a few hundred dollars?” He points over to the tree. “Pick up a damn box and bring it over to me.”
I start walking, but then I stop and look over my shoulder. “What about losing it for a few thousand dollars? I can help you find a new one.”
“Don’t make me file a complaint with Human Resources, Miss Grey.”
Sighing, I walk over to the tree and look over the brightly wrapped gifts. I settle on a golden one with a black ribbon that looks like the exact one I picked last year and hand it to the guard.
As is tradition, he scans the bottom of it, and then he instructs me to open it in front of him.
I take my time delicately ripping the paper, in hopes that he’ll get annoyed and let me out of this, but he has the patience of a saint.
When I finally get the wrapping off, I flip the lid and pull out the green ornament that bears the recipient’s name.
Garrett West.
I suck in a breath and drop it to the ground, shattering it to pieces.
“Savannah Grey picks Garrett West,” he says, typing it into his top-secret spreadsheet. “Okay, you can go now.”
“That’s not who I picked.” I stomp on the glass. “I picked George Shaw in Accounting.”
“No, I picked George Shaw in Accounting.” He points toward the door. “Goodbye, Miss Grey. Happy holidays.”
Right…
I step out of the room and notice Garrett leading a group of press members into the formal room. Even from a distance, I can’t deny that he’s sexy as hell. Bastard boss or not.
His blue eyes suddenly meet mine and he looks me up and down in a way that makes my breath hitch. He says something to one of the associates and signals for me to wait for him.
As he walks over to me, I try not to focus on the fact that he’s incapable of ever looking anything less than perfect. That if he weren’t my boss, I would’ve mustered up the courage to ask him out years ago.
“It took you all this time to pick up a silver tray, Miss Grey?” he asks. “Even if you walked—”
“I did walk.” I cut him off. “But now that I think about it, I don’t appreciate being asked to do an intern’s job. I should be talking to the executives with you.”
“Why?” He raises his eyebrow. “Your mind is already made up, and you hate dealing with these types of people.”
“That’s not the point.”
“You also, according to what you’ve told me, tend to get nervous and stressed when its date-night so I thought you would appreciate doing something simple. Since I was wrong, you can go.”
“What are you saying?”
“That you’re free to leave and go frolic with your boyfriend. Make sure to ask him if he has enough money on his credit card to pay for the entire meal this time.”
“That’s only happened once, and he honestly misunderstood the rules of Happy Hour.”
“Doesn’t matter,” he says, looking me up and down. “He’s dating you, so it should’ve never happened at all …”