Just My Merry Luck

Chapter 1

Chapter One

JEMMA

Every first of December, the tenth floor of Foster I just don’t prioritize the holidays like my co-workers do.

I have my reasons. Plus, I’m too busy—a self-proclaimed workaholic.

That’s why I skillfully avoided the sign-up sheet for today’s festive-themed potluck.

But let’s be honest: no one is missing the sad, store-bought cupcakes I would have brought.

I grit my teeth as another rendition of “It’s the Most Wonderful Time of the Year” hums through the speakers. I swear this is the third version I’ve heard today, and it’s not even noon.

This is going to be the longest month ever.

It doesn’t help that I’m on a ridiculously tight deadline. Year-end projects have been stacking up on my desk—all courtesy of my incredibly inefficient coworkers.

Talk about waiting until the last minute, guys.

I can’t do my work until they do theirs, and that simple fact irritates the merry little Christmas out of me.

If it were up to me, I’d do it all myself.

Unfortunately, that’s not how things work around here.

But if I can power through this next stack of advertising comparison reports—sounds fun, doesn’t it?

—then maybe I can sneak off for one of those delicious-looking cookies from the overly decorated table behind me.

Like I said, I’m not a Grinch—I love a well-decorated cookie. I’m just not baking my own these days.

As thoughts of sweet treats and comp reports flicker through my mind like the distracting twinkling lights through the office, a paperclip flies past my head, landing with a clatter on my desk.

“Earth to Jemma!” Gretchen’s voice slices through the stale office air, her words competing with the holiday tune streaming from the speakers.

Gretchen is my office bestie—okay, my only bestie—and quite possibly the most positive person I’ve ever met.

Having been hired a whopping six months before me, she took me under her wing, and we’ve been connected at the hip ever since.

We no longer work in the same department, but thankfully, our desks are still next to each other.

Gretchen is working her way up the marketing ladder, while I’m still stuck in advertising analysis.

I love my job and I’m good at it, but I’d much rather be in marketing.

That’s one of the reasons I work so hard—one of them.

I lift my head to meet Gretchen’s gaze, offering her a curious grin. “What?” I mouth.

Her large, expressive, amber-colored eyes light up as she nods toward the conference room. “They’re calling you in,” she whispers.

“Me?” I question, my eyebrows practically leaping off my forehead. That can’t be right. I don’t have anything on my calendar this afternoon. Gretchen must have misheard.

But being the nosy person I am, I stealthily roll my chair back behind the line of desks to see what’s going on.

Okay, that’s strange.

The conference room at the end of the hallway—the one that’s only used when the bigwigs are in town—is filling up with board members, human resource staff, and a few people I don’t recognize.

Seriously, how did I miss all the commotion?

Just as I squint to get a better look, one of the younger board members strides across the room and presses a button on the wall, transforming the transparent window into an opaque screen, obscuring my view inside.

Dang it.

“Jemma Jones,” a husky voice barks, nearly knocking me off my office chair, ending my spy mission. A short woman with pinched features, balancing a stack of manila folders in her arms, appears in the conference room doorway.

“Jemma Jones,” she repeats, this time louder.

I glance back at Gretchen, who offers me a hesitant smile, but quickly masks it with a reassuring flick of her wrist as if to say everything will be fine—nothing to worry about.

Queen of positivity, remember? But they don’t call you into this conference room without a scheduled meeting unless it’s something to worry about.

And this definitely feels like something to worry about.

Did I make a mistake or something? Are they calling me in to issue a formal write-up?

But for what? I do a quick mental inventory of all the reports I sent last month, but nothing jumps out.

Sure, I feel behind today, but that’s because other people are lazy.

Not me. I always get everything done on time, even if that means staying late.

I’ve never made a big mistake. So, what could they possibly want with me?

I rise from my chair, my stomach in knots and grumbling from thoughts of uneaten Christmas cookies.

I take a deep breath, pushing down the anxiety that’s attacking my nerves, and march toward the conference room, sidestepping the table of festive snacks.

My cheeks feel hot as the fluorescent lights overhead shine down on me like a spotlight.

Everyone’s eyes are on me.

Great, just what I need—an audience.

I hesitantly enter the blindingly white conference room, my heart racing as I face the intimidating people in fancy suits seated around a long oak table. Their expressions are smug and uptight.

'Tis the season . . . to be grumpy, I suppose.

One of them gestures for me to take a seat. As I lower myself into the chair, my palms grow sweaty. I nervously play with the ends of my long, honey-blonde hair that’s meticulously braided down the side of my neck and resting neatly against my white sweater as I wait for someone to speak.

Seriously, someone say something before I go crazy!

Everyone’s heads turn toward the door as the Director of HR enters.

He’s tall and slender, with a receding hairline, and for the life of me I can’t remember his name.

Tom? Ted? Something with a T. Foster & Sons has over one thousand employees, yet oddly none of them are sons.

It’s hard for me to keep track of everyone, especially since most of the higher-ups dwell on the floor above mine and hardly make time for the little people, unless there’s a problem.

The man, whose name is still evading me, positions himself in front of the table but doesn’t sit. Instead, he takes a firm stance and stares straight ahead, looking past everyone. He adjusts his baby-blue tie while the entire room hangs in silence.

Get on with it, dude!

Finally, he turns to face me, his muddy brown eyes finding mine. “Ms. Jones,” he begins.

My breath hitches in my throat.

“I’m so sorry, but we’re letting you go.”