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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IT'S BEEN OVER A WEEK since I found myself in Mr. Griffin's office, struggling to decipher the way he was looking at me—a mixture of weighty sadness and poorly repressed awe are my best guesses.
I gave up trying to figure him out almost immediately after he thanked me because he drew up that familiar, shuttered armour so damn fast I almost thought I'd dreamt up the entire exchange. There was no other explanation for his uncharacteristically reflective and thoughtful demeanour.
He dismissed me after that, wishing me all the best in my future endeavours. It sounded generic and painfully rehearsed, but I wasn't going to complain. Truth be told, I got off lightly. Something my roommates later pointed out, in between hysterical bursts of laughter.
That night, before jetting off to Western Australia, we'd gone out for drinks—a rooftop bar with a neo-Victorian vibe and breathtaking views of Circular Quay—to celebrate my newfound freedom. Zac toasted Mr. Griffin one last time because he'd resisted upping his asshole-ness to a whole new level.
And they were right.
My ex-boss could've filed a formal complaint about me, made my life hell by ensuring I never worked in the Digital Marketing sphere again.
It was a fear that had initially kept me up at night.
I checked my work emails daily, even when I was in Perth visiting my family. As much as I tried to switch off and enjoy my holiday—catching up with people I hadn't seen in years, reading a hockey romance on my Kindle, and spending hours at the sprawling, white-sand beaches that were just a short walk from my parent's house—I couldn't. I half-expected to find something from HR, jumping up and down in my inbox, stipulating that I'd breached about a dozen codes of conduct and would struggle to find work elsewhere. But nothing came.
It appeared I was off the hook.
Since I walked out of Mr. Griffin's office ten days ago, sliding the entire contents of my desk into an old box I pilfered from the storage cupboard, I've let that fear grow in my stomach like an ugly, noxious weed. Well, no more. I don't have to worry about what his reaction—or lack thereof—might be. And I don't have to think about what my upcoming work schedule would've been this week.
Because I'm done. A clean slate. Mondays are no longer a thing I dread, and it feels pretty surreal.
Tapping out a rhythm on my steering wheel, I bop my head to the soft music that's floating through my speaker system. My windows are rolled down, and the wind is tossing my hair everywhere.
As I drive home from the airport tonight, recharged but socially drained from my trip, I slip into a trance-like state, and my brain betrays me. For a nanosecond, I remember all the meetings, social events, and appointments I'd booked for us to attend this week.
