Chapter 8
PIP
Six Months Later
“And voilà! Here we are in the Woodward & Co cafeteria,” says Kit. The dark-haired ‘insider’ had caught sight of me in Clare Smith’s office digging into my brown bag lunch and offered to give me a tour.
The room is cheerful, splashed with primary colors. Oversized images of greeting cards the company has produced over the years decorate the walls.
I glance at the conservatively dressed employees as they select items from the well-stocked food displays.
“If Clare hires you on a permanent basis, you’ll get an electronic meal card. All the free food you want. C’mon, let’s grab a table.”
“Sounds good, but I’m not interested in a career,” I say as we sit down. “Temp works suits me. A different day, a different job. What about you? You’re not a full-timer either, right?”
“God, no,” Kit laughs, tossing her long straight hair over one shoulder. “I’m a freelance social media strategist. Which is just a fancy name for an old-school photographer with a marketing degree.”
“Cool. But you sound like you know the company so well.”
“Oh, yes. Clare’s head of PR. She likes to think of me as her right-hand woman and put me on a non-exclusive retainer. Over the years, I’ve come to know all the company’s deep, dark secrets.”
As Kit talks, a strikingly tall man enters the cafeteria like he owns the place. I'm too far away to see him clearly, but he must be super good-looking, important, or both.
Conversations hush as he passes. Girls my age, and even some guys, turn to look at him.
Dark hair, and a white silk shirt unbuttoned just low enough to make me wonder if he missed the corporate dress code memo.
I crane my neck to get a better look.
Kit follows my gaze, then snorts. “He’s trouble with a capital T. Stay far, far away.”
The warning only makes me more curious.
“Who is he?”
“Sheldon Woodward III. Heir to this 200-year-old company. His older brother, Preston, was CEO for the last twenty years—until he was killed in a skiing accident last month.”
“How terrible.”
“Yes. For all concerned. And now Sheldon must fill Preston’s billion-dollar shoes. The board put him in charge a few weeks ago. Though rumor has it, he’s not exactly thrilled about it. Playing the role of the big boss isn’t in his blood.”
I nod, absorbing this, while Kit looks me up and down. “So, what about you? What’s your story? It’s obvious you dig the vintage look—sweetheart neckline, pin curls. What’s the decade? Thirties? Fifties?”
“The forties. I love everything about the era, but I carry all decades in my shop.”
“Where is it located? I’d love to stop by and check it out.”
“It’s online now, but I’m saving for a physical location in the Lower East Side. I’m going to set my Aunt Vivian up with a gallery down there too.”
Kit’s phone rings. "Sorry. I’ve got to take this. Go grab dessert,” she says, handing me her meal card.
“With pleasure. I’m the original sugarholic.”
I stroll over to the dessert table, scanning the options. My eyes zero in on the prize—a rich, dark chocolate brownie, studded with tiny, delectable fudge chips. And it’s the last one.
With my mouth watering, I grab the silver tongs to move it onto my plate.
But before I can, an enormous hand swoops in, snatching it away.
“Hey!” I turn toward the offender—then freeze.
I know those eyes. Those striking, blue eyes I haven’t seen since Zaza and I crashed that Taboo club six months back. And I ended up in that DJ’s bed.
“Snickers?!”
Recognition flickers across his face as he steps back. My eyes roam over his body—the wild DJ with his skin-tight jeans and unbuttoned silk shirt are gone. Today, he’s in an expensive bespoke suit, perfectly tailored to his tall frame.
“That was my brownie,” I say automatically, before realizing how stupid that sounds.
His lips twitch. “The golden rule of ‘finders keepers’ says it’s mine.”
I fold my arms. “You clean up pretty well, Snickers. The CEO look suits you."
“I’d like to say the same for you,” he says, his sharp eyes taking in my favorite vintage suit. “But that pin curl look has been out for eighty years. I prefer your hair long and flowing. What are you doing here, Pip?”
I detect antagonism in his voice. Why? He was the one who deemed the incredible passion we shared just 'a fun night.'
“You know I'm a temporary secretary. I’m working for Clare Smith today. And the name is Pollyanna.”
“I believe people must look like their names, and you’re a ‘Pip.’”
He lifts the brownie to his lips and takes an enormous bite.
“Well, this Pollyanna is demanding part of your brownie—what’s left of it, that is.”
He smirks. “What are you going to do about it?”
Smiling sweetly, I decide I can play this game, too. “I’m going to report you to HR—for brownie abuse. A man of your size should share.”
“On the contrary, a man of my size needs every bit of nourishment he can get. On the other hand, a pipsqueak like you?—”
“What did you call me?”
“Pipsqueak, Pip.”
I narrow my eyes, biting back my retort.
He pops the last bite into his mouth. “See you around.”
And with that, he saunters off, leaving me stunned.
When I return to the table, Kit grins up at me.
“Where’s dessert?”
“Sheldon Woodward III ate it.” I slap her card on the table.
Kit laughs. “That’s just like Snickers. Don’t take it personally—he’s rude to everyone.”
“He also gave me a new name.”
“What’s that?”
“Pip.”
Kit claps her hands. “I like it. Can I call you Pip?”
“No!”
“Too late,” Kit says with a wink, standing. “C’mon, time to get you back to Clare before she has a cow.”