Total pages in book: 88
Estimated words: 86573 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 86573 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 433(@200wpm)___ 346(@250wpm)___ 289(@300wpm)
A feminine clearing of a throat draws my attention to the back where Peyton is sitting. Her hand is raised like she’s in grade school and I’m the teacher.
What the hell does she want?”
Not in the mood for her antics, I say, “What?”
Don’t believe for a fucking second that I don’t notice how she swallows hard before asking, “Is there a point to this meeting? I have a really important phone call in ten minutes, and I’d like to see this move along.”
My jaw clenches, her insubordination hitting me directly in the chest, heightening my irritation to dangerous levels.
Taking the position at the head of the table, I lean both palms on the cool glass and pin her with my stare. “If you have a problem with attending this meeting, Miss Lévêque, then why don’t you do us all a favor and pack up your belongings early? We’ll be fine getting along without you.”
Metaphorically folding her cards, she backs down, melting into her seat. “I’ll send them an email telling them I’ll be delayed.”
I give her a condescending smile and gesture my arm toward the room. “Please, email them while we wait for you.”
I don’t miss the gasps of shock around the room as we volley off shots back and forth.
All eyes on her, Peyton fumbles with her phone, fingers typing a mile a minute, then shoots off an email. When she’s done, she rests her phone on her lap and gives me her full attention.
“Are you ready, Miss Lévêque? Can we proceed?”
Twisting her lips to the side, eyes narrowed, her sassy mouth says, “You may proceed.”
Christ. Anyone else I would have fired by now, but after a conversation with George during one the weekly meetings I have with all my department heads, I know he’s struggling with Peyton’s departure and is trying to soak up as much from her as possible before she leaves.
Apparently, she’s a real asset to the company he wishes we could have kept on.
Figures.
Standing tall, I adjust the folds on my sleeves and say, “I brought you all here to test your reactions to the mock-ups of the new women’s line we’re releasing soon.” Semi-true.
From the looks of it, it might be our redhead friend who can’t seem to keep her tongue from licking her lips at me every two seconds.
“I want to go around the table and hear your initial reaction to the ads. Starting with . . .” I point to the redhead.
She points to herself, pushing her chest forward, the buttons on her shirt straining. Jesus, what department is this girl from? I can’t even take her seriously.
“Yeah, you. Also state your name and department for me.”
Smiling wickedly, she says, “I’m Sasha from marketing. I’m interning to take Peyton’s job.” Ah, that’s why I don’t know her—she’s a newbie. I quickly catch a roll of Peyton’s eyes when I turn her way.
Looks like Peyton isn’t on board with her replacement. That makes me chuckle inwardly.
If Sasha is just starting, the emails couldn’t possibly be from her.
I cross her off my mental list.
“My first initial reaction to the ads.” She bounces her index finger off her chin. “Super pretty.”
Oh, for fuck’s sake.
This is the replacement we found for Peyton? She’s supposed to show some form of marketing intelligence, and all she has to say is pretty?
I’ll be having a conversation with George.
Pressing my tongue against my teeth, trying not to lash out on the new girl, I nod to the next girl, prompting her to introduce herself.
Voice shaky she says, “Hi, I’m Diane fr-from accounting and the ads are nice to look at.”
Another winner.
Another employee I cross off my list.
We move around the room in rapid pace.
Margie from archives thinks the ads are nicely placed.
Samantha from marketing likes the font.
Theresa from reception wants her butt to look that nice.
*Giggles from around the table*
Shoot me fucking now.
Pulling on my hair, we reach Peyton who has her pen perched against her mouth, studying the mock-ups with laser focus.
The weekend must have freshened her up, because instead of soaking-wet hair and a trench-coat dress, her hair is long and curled over her shoulders, and she’s wearing a black tunic over a black and white-striped button-up shirt. She looks professional, just like the day she resigned.
Leaning forward, pen poised at the screen, she doesn’t say a word.
Yet. . .
“Peyton, you look like you want to say something.”
“Do I?” she blurts out, obviously trying to look casual and failing. “I might have a few thoughts.”
“Please.”
She clears her throat and her pen waves in the air like a pointer. “What would I do? What would I do? I think . . .” She chews on the tip of that pen now, biting down on the black cap, straight, white teeth blinding. “I think they’re pandering to our audience. It’s overdone. Too many fonts, for starters—there should only be three, that’s a design rule of thumb.” She casts an apologetic look around the room.