Summer Worthington doesn't hate her corporate job, per se. It's her god-awful boss, Mr. Griffin - or, as her roommates like to call him, Mr. Grouchy - who's the problem. He's cruel, cold-hearted, and the most attractive man she's ever seen.
As his p...
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JUST WHEN I THINK THINGS can't possibly get worse, they do.
A single email materialises in my inbox, haunting me. It's a message from Krystal, one of the creative directors who's made this place suck a little—no, a lot—less. She's been here since Mr. Griffin founded Elevated, and she's in a high-level position with authority and invaluable insight. She's always been nice to me; encouraged me and even said I'd go far here. She's our office's self-proclaimed work mum, offering sage nuggets of wisdom and letting the younger staff vent to her in the lunchroom, aware of Mr. Griffin's less-than-stellar reputation. Krystal understands the inner workings of this company—and the man who runs it—better than anyone else.
Fortunately, she's only addressed it to me, but it still manages to feel like a very public dressing down.
That last part about his personal life was uncalled for, Summer. I'm disappointed in you.
A horrible, twisty feeling coils in my chest. It feels like I can't draw enough oxygen into my lungs.
I don't understand what, exactly, she's referring to, but I know I've broached unsafe territory. Truthfully, I know nothing about Mr. Griffin's personal life. No one in the office ever talks about him in that context—maybe that should've been a red flag. My co-workers don't hesitate to say horrible things about the kind of boss he is, like how he makes us stay late every Friday night when other neighbouring offices get to leave early, but that's where it ends. They don't insult him about who he is outside of this building, and I realise I've probably taken it too far.
The shame I feel hits square in the solar plexus.
As I process what I've done and simultaneously try to separate myself from this terrible, vengeful person I've become, the double doors to his office unseal behind me, and the cold draft tickles my ankles.
Even on the soft carpeted floor, I hear his heavy footfall, and I wish I could disappear into thin air. Before I can flee, he's standing right beside my desk. He's never done that before—got off his ass to talk to me. He usually just calls out to me from inside his office, or he'll send me an email.
I can't bring myself to look up at him. I'm not doing it to be petty. I'm just frozen in place, physically unable to move, let alone feel my limbs. I'm pretty sure my heart is beating double-time.
I feel him step into my space, and it sends my pulse careening further. The rational part of my brain knows he's maintaining an acceptable, appropriate distance between us—he always keeps it professional and even has a zero-tolerance policy against workplace relationships—but something in my body stirs, and I'm confused as hell.
We've literally sat shoulder-to-shoulder in an Uber Black on at least fifty occasions, been pressed against each other in a cramped elevator (social distancing, who?), and it's never felt like this.
