Chapter 1 #3
With my first sip of espresso, a bitter, nutty heat fills my mouth and slips down my throat. It tastes like hard work and money.
A call of, “Hey, Reese,” pulls my attention from the gross market decomposition chart on the screen.
Matt stands half in my office, half in the hall.
His Armani baby-blue button-down is as perfectly fitted as his Cucinelli pants.
Saks could photograph him for an advertisement and sell out their menswear department in four hours.
“Matt,” I say, taking another sip of my drink.
“You ready for today?” His perfectly arched brow lifts as he reaches into his pocket and retrieves his signature lollipop, unwrapping it before popping it into his mouth.
What grown man sucks lollipops? “You land this bastard, and they’ll change the name of the whole damn firm to the Conway Group.
” He pulls the lollipop out of his mouth and points it at me.
“Well deserved, by the way. You’ve been working your ass off.
My wife would kill me if I logged your hours—” He chuckles.
“But it could be an incredible win for us.”
Aside from ruining my largest-deal winning streak, here’s the other terrible thing about Matt: He’s nauseatingly nice.
He and I started at the same time—both young, green, and eager as hell—and have gone from analysts to associates to partners.
Grunts to royals with me one step ahead of him the whole time—except last year.
If I get approval from the committee today, he’ll be genuinely excited for the firm.
A true team player with his us and we terminology.
Gag.
We aren’t even enemies—there’s no logical need for me to feel the urge to squash him like a bug—but when he took the title of largest account won last year, it triggered some primordial need in me to destroy him. Excellence is not second place, and it won’t happen again.
“Do I need to check the coffee for Ex-Lax?” I tease.
“Ex-Lax?” He scoffs, returning the lollipop to his mouth. “Deal this big calls for antifreeze, at least.” He waves a file at me. “Numbers look good.”
My smile slips. “Numbers?”
“Just doing my due diligence.” His light tone does nothing to lower my defenses. Nor does the way the stick of his lollipop bobbles on his lips. “Helluva company.”
Some research is common, but Matt having a whole file in hand raises my hackles. “It is.”
“Maybe even good enough we get the team together after to celebrate?” he asks. “We can invite the spouses—I’ll see if Jenn can get a sitter. You seeing anyone?”
Matt also loves personal questions.
And hugging.
And interacting with coworkers outside of the office.
They do Friday happy hours and have weekend barbecues, but I never attend.
Mostly because I’m too busy working, but also because the thought of small talk makes me want to rip my fingernails out.
They used to invite me, but I guess they’ve reached their threshold of rejections, because the invites have stopped.
Also, I removed myself from the group text. I fill my social cup with my virtual Peloton coach, Amber, and my grocery delivery man named Juan.
“No,” I tell him. “And if the meeting goes well, we both know the mountain of work I’ll have waiting for me.”
Matt shakes his head but he’s smiling. “You’re a machine.”
I want to put him in a machine, preferably one that grinds things to bits.
My phone dings with yet another text. Remy this time. I just fell into a forum of post-craniotomy recovery threads. Some of them never drive again, did you know that?
My stomach twists. I know every risk, but the chances for any are slim. Her tumor is ideal for removal without issue. And my sisters are hysterical.
She’ll be fine, I write. And this isn’t an emergency. I’m going into my meeting. Leave me alone.
“I’ll leave you to it,” Matt says with a rap of his knuckles on the door. “See ya in there. And good luck.”
With my acknowledging nod, he disappears down the hall. I yawn into the back of my hand, then drain what’s left of my espresso.
At the small mirror on the wall, I reapply my blood-red lipstick, aptly named Success, and rake my fingers through my hair, the shoulder-length dark strands falling into a wavy frame around my face.
The inky-black mascara on my lashes enhances the brown in my eyes and the magic of contouring accentuates my straight nose and high cheeks.
There’s barely a trace of my exhaustion.
Until my gaze drops to the obvious coffee stain on my shirt and I breathe out a “Shit.”
I pluck a few tissues from a box to do damage control. It doesn’t work, and I’m out of time and backup shirts after spending so many nights here. There’s nothing to do but wear it like a badge.
With files, computer, and phone in hand, the familiar pre-pitch adrenaline starts to pump; I live for it. For this. For the anticipation of nailing it and the hit of dopamine that will follow when I do. It’s what keeps me coming back for more.
I take a deep breath and one last look at the Chicago skyline surrounding my office, whispering, “Let’s go choose excellence, Reese.”
And I will. I always do.