Chapter 7
TROY
I open the door without a knock, dropping myself unceremoniously into the chair across from Jing. She doesn’t even look up at me, still typing away at whatever is on her laptop that is apparently more important than a CEO dropping by unannounced.
I clear my throat.
She doesn’t look up.
I try again.
Nothing.
“Jing,” I snap. “Hello?”
She looks up, raising a neat brow in my direction.
“Yes?”
“I’d like to talk.”
“Funny. Usually when people want to talk to me, they send me a message beforehand. Or book time on my calendar. You do know how to do that, don’t you? If not, I’m happy to forward you the training module.”
I growl in frustration and I think I see another one of those sly, second-long smiles lift the corners of her lips. I watch impatiently as she continues to type, finishing up with a flourish before looking at me with her full attention.
“I have five minutes,” she says flatly. “So hurry up. Who are we firing this time?”
“How’d you know it would be about that?”
She rolls her eyes.
“What’s the name?”
“Bert Camden.”
“Bert?” Jing asks with a rare inflection of surprise.
“Camden,” I repeat.
“What in the world has Bert Camden done wrong?” she asks.
“That’s an awfully biased way to ask that question,” I comment.
“Bert Camden is sixty-two years old and is beloved by all,” Jing says, straightening. “He’s the one who petitioned for the company to provide free tampons and pads to all women’s bathrooms in the building.”
“Bert did that?” I ask faintly.
“Bert did that,” Jing replies firmly. “To date, the most egregious offense I’ve known Bert to commit is giving long-winded unsolicited updates about his twelve grandchildren to anyone who will listen. Not exactly a fireable offense.”
“Yeah, well,” I mutter. All of the hellfire and fury that had caused me to burst into Jing’s office to benign with, has suddenly faded.
I feel foolish.
I feel foolish a lot these days.
On Monday, I passionately kissed my executive assistant.
It’s now Friday, and I still haven’t spoken to her about it. I’ve been avoiding her. Watching her from afar.
This morning, I watched as she accepted a bouquet of wildflowers from Bert in the lobby. He tipped his baseball hat in her direction with a big stupid grin on his face, and I saw red.
“So what did Bert do?” Jing asks. I can practically see her internal struggle. Maybe I’ve found Jing’s kryptonite. Maybe Jing has a thing for Bert.
“He gave my assistant flowers,” I growl.
“Uh-huh,” Jing says flatly. “Those white and pink flowers from the empty field next to the parking garage?”
“How did you guess?” I ask.
“Because Bert does that for all the female employees on their birthdays,” she says. “It’s hardly harassment. Not a single woman has reported him for it, and it’s clearly a platonic gesture. So unless he said something inappropriate, this complaint has no standing.”
She glances at her watch.
“And that’s five minutes,” she announces. “Anything else, Mr. Dixon?”
I stand, shaking my head. All I can think about is how it’s Laura’s birthday today, and I had no idea. And like an idiot, I’ve been avoiding her all week, stalking her and watching her every interaction with the opposite sex like some jealous psycho.
Meanwhile, I’m probably the reason that this entire week, the week of her birthday, has been miserable.