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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MONDAY MORNING CAN'T COME SOON enough.
I might be returning to the same office I've frequented for the last eight months, but it symbolises the beginning of a new, historic chapter, and I'm itching to take this opportunity by the proverbial horns. It's my first official day as Elevated's content specialist, and I barely slept last night. Anticipation buzzed through my veins and my mind raced. It was like I'd downed a double-shot espresso right before climbing into bed.
I'm a workaholic at the best of times, but this is next level, even for me. Usually, I appreciate my weekends a little more. But after I said goodnight to Max and nursed a killer hangover all Saturday, I got straight down to business on Sunday. I planned out everything, from my outfit—toeing the line between professional and sexy—to the colour schemes for my new office. I brainstormed all the houseplants that would survive in the low lighting—assuming I'm in the windowless office at the far end of the building. Honestly, I'm just happy to have a bigger, adjustable desk and a lockable door.
My standards aren't very high.
They can't be after you've been parked in front of Mr. Griffin's office all year like a sacrificial lamb, taking the heat from the majority of his employees when HR—otherwise known as Veronica—has conveniently disappeared for hours or placed the 'I'm in a very important meeting, come back later' sign on their door (and then it just happens to stay up all day without anyone questioning it).
Anyway, that's not my problem anymore. I don't have to play the peacemaker, whether that's mediating arguments among the staff or copping flak for things Max gave the go-ahead.
I'm no longer his PA, and it feels good.
My new role has a start time of nine o'clock, and it doesn't involve a frantic pit stop for coffee on the way, either. I'm wonderfully empty-handed when I arrive this morning. If Max thinks I'm bringing him an oat milk latte just because he's rehired me, promoted me, and said some (sweet) things, he's got another thing coming.
A healthy dose of nerves scuttle through my system as I stand in front of the high-rise building in the heart of Sydney, but it's mostly relief and excitement swirling through me.
I'm back, bitches.
I feel like Alison DiLaurentis in Pretty Little Liars. Back from the dead and ready to make nice.
Cars whiz by noisily, their exhaust fumes strong. Still, I inhale a purposeful breath and struggle to contain the goofy-ass smile on my face. The middle-aged barista, Greg, gives me a little wave from his parked coffee van and a nod of encouragement. Not only is he a godsend who's saved my ass on multiple occasions—the mornings I overslept or ran out of time to retrieve Max's oat milk latte from Gumption—he's my friend, too. Clearly, he recognises that this is a momentous day for me. Most people would just assume my personal leave was extended, or I'd been struck down with the flu, but not Greg. He knows I was teetering on the edge of quitting for months. He's heard all about my five-year plan—to keep climbing the corporate ladder until I snagged myself a prestigious job like this.
