ELIZA #2
“Save the office? Wild bird?” he echoes, shaking his head in disbelief. He takes one heavy step inside, and the office suddenly feels smaller. It’s clear this isn’t a crochet-blankets-and-garden type of man. The exact opposite, I’d guess.
“You’re assaulting Dave.”
My jaw drops. This has to be a joke. But the structured lines of his jaw are set, humorless beneath all that thick scruff.
His broad hands settle on his hips, shoulders straining against his jacket in what’s probably an intimidation tactic. I straighten.
“I’m not assaulting him,” I say evenly. “I came into this office, saw an animal that belongs outdoors, and decided to take care of the problem and remove him.”
Soft grunts fill the air behind me. I twist to find the bird feasting on my sandwich, pieces of spinach and bread dribbling from his beak onto the floor.
You’re kidding me.
This is not how my first day on the job is going to go. I’m too prepared, I’ve worked too hard, and I’ve proven myself too many times for my first impression to be this terrible.
My hands find my own hips. “This mess? The one he’s making right now while you stand there all high and mighty and angry-looking?” The man’s lips thin. “That’s your fault, because you’re too busy scowling instead of helping, or getting out of the way.”
He runs his tongue over teeth, looking like he’s trembling with the effort of keeping his body right where it is.
It’s a solid body too—one clearly built from muscle, standing a few inches taller than my five-foot-nine.
It could probably pick me up and toss me out, and the duck would definitely cheer him on.
But the fact that he stays in place suggests he’s not that kind of man.
No. He’s the kind that attacks with his words, because he slowly articulates, “I’m standing here all angry-looking because this is my fucking office, on my fucking farm.”
It’s like I’m a balloon, and he just jabbed a hole in me. I stare at him, gob-smacked, as his words barrel on.
“That,” he points angrily at the duck, who’s still gobbling my sandwich, “is Dave. My duck.” That pissed-off finger points to the floor. “And this office is closed to visitors.”
Oh, he misunderstands. “But I’m not a visi—”
He continues over my explanation. “Tours are by-reservation only, and as the sign out front clearly indicates, those begin by the dock. Oyster pickups need to be made ahead of time and are fulfilled on the side of the building. None of those arrows point you to this door, so there’s no reason for you to be here, in this room, especially when no one invited you inside. ”
His voice is even louder now than when he started, and a vein strains against his corded neck.
He has no idea who I am. And now, I’m wondering if he just lied about who he is. If he’s actually in charge, he’d know I’m starting today.
There’s absolutely nothing about him that suggests he’s running this business. The water and grime coating his clothing do suggest he works here, but there’s no way a person this unkempt is the owner of the award-winning farm that’s been featured in culinary magazines.
He swings the door open wide. “Get out.”
Oh no, you didn’t.
I’ve never punched anyone before, but the urge snakes down my arms, gathering in my hands, now fisted by my sides.
I am a damn good professional with a damn good (slightly inflated) resume who confirmed my start date and time with my new employer when I signed a contract for this job three days ago.
I subletted my apartment and moved into a ramshackle sailboat in a ramshackle marina because that was the only accommodation available on such late notice.
I dumped my cheater-of-a-boyfriend and told my boss he was going to miss me when my job was deemed unnecessary and cut.
I’m not about to balk at some jerk who needs a shower.
I take two steps back and perch against the desk instead.
“I would get out, if I was a visitor.”
His jaw works over more words, but I cut him off before they make it out.
“I’m the new Social Media Director for Gold’s Oysters.
Anson Gold signed my contract. His secretary confirmed my start time and directed me to this office in an email yesterday morning.
I have all the papers to prove it if you want your eyes to do something other than glare at me like a toddler whose mom won’t buy them a new Lego set. ”
His head jerks back in shock as he processes this information. Pasting a pleasant smile on my face, I tap my fingers on the desk and wait for an apology.
When he opens his mouth, however, the words I’m and sorry are not on tap.
“Lady,” he bites out, and the disrespect in it makes me bristle with loathing.
“My brother would have told me if he went over my head to hire someone for my fucking farm. But he didn’t.
And I sure as shit didn’t hire you. It’s been a hell of a day and it’s only nine in the fucking morning.
I don’t have the time or patience to drive some sense into you, so like I said: Get. Out.”
That’s the last straw.
A burn slides into my throat, crawling up my face and into my eyes, which are on the verge of watering.
I know this feeling. It’s the same one that made me bawl my eyes out in the elevator after HR eliminated my position two weeks ago. It’s frustration, and anger, and the fact that no matter how hard I work, I cannot seem to catch a break.
And this, which was supposed to be my break, is just another mess.
The only thing that would make this worse right now is actually releasing tears in front of this jackwagon, so I’m drawing the line. I force a shaky exhale and push to my feet. Beside me, Dave is nesting in his wonderful mess of mayonnaise, turkey bits, and crumbs.
Forcing the wobble from my voice, I say, “You might want to clean that up. Mayonnaise stains.”
Then I hitch my bag over my shoulder, settle my hood on my head like I have all the time in the world, and calmly bypass him. I want him to reek of dead fish, but I only catch a whiff of something salty and warm, and that pisses me off even more.
I trudge across the parking lot, already drafting an email to Anson’s secretary in my mind as the rain welcomes me right back to where I started.
A sign of a new, fresh beginning, my ass.