Chapter 17
MONDAYS ARE FOR MISTAKES
NOLAN
Monday shouldn’t suck this much.
But the second I step into the office and spot Jackson already there—arms crossed, legs sprawled, that smug fucking smirk like he spent all morning fine-tuning it in the mirror—I know today’s out for blood.
No coffee. No peace. Just his stupid face.
“You’re in early,” I say as I brush past Jackson, already regretting showing up at all.
“And you look like shit.”
I pause mid-stride. Grit my teeth.
Breathe.
Keep walking.
I hit my office and drop into my chair with a groan, raking a hand over my jaw. The weekend is still stuck to me, wrapped around my brain like static. Rorie’s voice, Rorie’s lips, Rorie’s—
Nope. Not going there.
Jackson appears again, of course. The man is a housefly with a trust fund and too much free time. He plants himself in the guest chair across from me because of course he does.
“Is there something you want?” I ask, leveling him with a look. “Besides to be a walking HR complaint?”
He leans back, grinning. “Thatcher wants to see you. About the Cross party.”
My stomach dips, just slightly. I can do damage control in my sleep, but Thatcher?
He’s not exactly known for handing out grace. And I know that party wasn’t a clean win. Rorie hijacked everything with style, sass, and a damn sparkler.
And Asher ate it up.
“I’ve got drinks with Shelby this week,” I say. “I’m not worried.”
Jackson raises an eyebrow. “Saturday was bad, Nolan. She sabotaged us.”
“No, she one-upped us.” I grab my mouse and click through unread emails, trying to ignore the way my jaw tightens.
But I can’t, not when I’m already carrying too much tension. And especially not when I’m fairly certain Jackson’s the reason for Rorie’s anger toward me slash us. Since he’s the one dishing out the strategic flexibility talk.
“Speaking of sabotage,” I say. “Did you undercut another firm’s rates by thirty percent just to land a deal?”
Jackson blinks. Shrugs. “What if I did?”
“How’d you know what they were offering?”
His smirk sharpens. “I’m playing the game.”
“Yeah, playing fast and loose with predatory pricing and dragging the entire firm into a legal shitstorm.” I lean in. “That kind of stunt puts us on the radar. We start violating antitrust laws, and it’s not just dirty—it’s dumb.”
He scoffs, all confidence and recklessness. “Relax. It’s less than a handful of clients. Besides, that kind of thing barely sticks in court. You know that. And hey, if the other guys wanted to win, they should’ve been smarter.”
Jesus Christ.
“And I’m the one getting dragged into Thatcher’s office?” I snap. “Unbelievable.”
Jackson checks his watch, already bored. “Hey, if it makes you feel better, I’m ready to watch him rip you a new one. Front row seat.”
My phone buzzes, screen lighting up with a new message from Textually Frustrated.
And because the universe has a sense of humor, Jackson’s nosy little eyes catch the notification. His gaze bounces back to me with mock horror.
“Textually Frustrated?” he repeats, like he’s just witnessed a crime. “That’s got to be the saddest, thirstiest pet name I’ve ever heard. You sexting your therapist now?”
“Get out before I forward your browser history to IT.”
He rises slowly, chuckling. “Love our little chats, buddy.”
The door clicks shut behind him.
Finally. Silence.
Did you taste test your nemesis yet?
Starting strong. No hello, no how’s your mental health—just straight for the throat.
Or lower. I figured you’d appreciate the direct approach.
Unfortunately, no.
No enemy dessert.
No sampling.
I’m on a strict sarcasm and self-loathing diet.
Tragic. You seemed so… enthusiastic last time.
My enthusiasm has consequences.
Now I’m nursing a hangover made of guilt, tension, and the ghost of her skin.
The ghost of her skin should be the name of your band.
Or my memoir.
You’re not still texting her though, right?
Nope. No texting. I don’t even have her number.
Just daydreams. Nightmares. Flashbacks.
All very healthy.
Carl, I say this with affection—you’re a disaster.
But I mean that in a good way.
Appreciate it.
Tell me again how you’re the emotionally well-adjusted one in this friendship?
I never claimed that. I’m just less obvious about spiraling.
So what you’re saying is… we’re equally crazy, just aesthetically different?
Exactly. You spiral in drunk rage texts. I spiral in leggings and retail therapy.
And somehow we meet in the middle. Text purgatory.
Where all good banter lives. And occasionally dies when you get too horny to function.
One time.
And here you are, pretending she didn’t set your brain on fire with one look?
She’s inconvenient as hell. Especially when she shows up in a dress that murders logic on sight.
Oof. Hot?
TOO hot. And she’s in my head again. Thanks for that!
Want me to save you from yourself again?
Yes. Desperately.
Hit me with something distracting.
Pick your poison:
A…Ridiculous hypotheticals
B…Unhinged flirting
C…Emotional vulnerability disguised as sarcasm
Dealer’s choice.
But let’s start with C.
Since you’re the reigning queen of unsolicited opinions, I need some serious advice about my dilemma.
Oh, I live for this. Proceed.
BTW is this girl the reason why you asked me if I ever hated anyone?
Perhaps.
How did it all start? Workplace thing? Did you insult her outfit? Park in her spot? Run over her dog?
No dogs were harmed. But yes, work-adjacent. Let’s call it… professionally adversarial foreplay.
I’m listening.
I don’t know what to do.
Well, start by deciding what your goal is. You trying to win her over or just mess with her until she hits you with a stapler?
That’s the issue. I don’t know.
Please. You do know. You just don’t want to admit it because admitting it scares the fuck out of you.
O Enlightened One!
Answer this…
Do you want to get to know her? Understand her? Or just nail her and call it character development?
If you want to get to know her, and or understand her, then that’s dangerous.
Dangerous how?
Because once you understand someone… you can’t pretend they don’t matter anymore.
…
Hit a nerve, huh?
Possibly.
If you just wanted to bang her, you wouldn’t be texting me, asking questions you already know the answer to. You’d be working on your playbook. But you’re not. You’re hesitating.
Because she’s so deep under your skin, she’s practically part of your nervous system. And the second you touch her, REALLY touch her, you know damn well she won’t be easy to forget.
So yeah. Keep pretending.
Just don’t come crying to me when your whole emotional equilibrium goes up in flames.
Or you’re wrong, and I do just want to screw her.
Mkay.
Carl, honey…she’s going to get under your armor, and when she does, she won’t just mess with you—she’ll annihilate you.
And you know it.
You assume a lot about me.
I haven’t been wrong yet.
You’re annoying.
It’s my charm. But you’re vulnerable right now.
So what’s the play then?
That depends.
Do you want to win AGAINST her?
Or win HER?
Those are very different games, Romeo.
I stare at the screen. Her words hit like a steel-toed boot to the ego. Win against her or win her?
Shit.
That’s a heavy question for a guy who just wanted to flirt and vent.
I don’t do half-assed advice. I’m a full-ass commitment.
Before I cross the threshold toward Thatcher’s office, I double back and jab my head into the bullpen. “Rishi.”
He looks up from his monitor, chewing the end of a pen. “What’s up?” he asks, already wary.
“Thatcher. Now.”
Rishi doesn’t ask questions. Just grabs his notebook, mutters something to the intern about covering his meeting, and falls in step beside me.
“On a scale of one to scorched earth, how bad is this?” he asks under his breath as we approach the office.
“Let’s just say Jackson’s already been in there, and I’d bet half my net worth he poured gasoline on the entire conversation before striking a match.”
Rishi sighs. “Fantastic. Love a Monday roast.”
Thatcher’s door is already cracked open like an invitation to hell when Rishi and I arrive. We pause outside of it.
I adjust my cuffs like and then ask. “Ready?”
“No,” he deadpans. “But I did sign that death waiver when I took this job, so…”
“A boutique firm.” Thatcher’s voice slices through the air before I even step inside. He’s standing behind his desk, arms folded, expression carved from stone. “A goddamn boutique firm outplayed us?”
Okay. So not in the mood for nuance.
I stay quiet. Let him get it all out. Jumping in now would be like trying to reason with a grizzly mid-mauling.
His eyes volley between me and Rishi like we’re joint disappointments, but only one of us deserves the title.
“Do you two have any idea how bad this looks?”
Jackson—who’s leaning so far back in his chair he might as well be on a beach—answers for us. “Pretty bad?”
My head whips toward him. I narrow my eyes, hoping they could shoot daggers if I squint hard enough.
Thatcher’s already moving on. “Cross is hosting a pitch event at his private island in a month. Invite-only. Five firms. Three invites have already gone out. If we don’t get one…
” He pauses, just long enough to twist the knife.
“Don’t worry about making partner, Nolan. Worry about finding a new job.”
I don’t blink. Don’t flinch.
Jackson lets out a low whistle like we’re discussing fantasy football standings, not my damn livelihood. “High stakes.”
The urge to throttle him rises like bile.
“I have a plan,” I say, keeping my voice calm.
Thatcher leans in. “Then make it work. Fast.”
“I will. But I need to talk to you about—”
He slices a hand through the air. “Don’t want to hear it. Just fix it.”
“I—”
“No excuses. No explanations. Just. Results.” Every word lands like a hammer.
I clamp my jaw shut. Press my tongue to the roof of my mouth before I say something I’ll regret. Because I will circle back to this conversation. But not with Jackson in the room feeding him lazy smirks and frat-boy shrugs.