Page 7 of When Hearts Ignite

I snort, unable to hide my amusement. Few would stand up against Hayley, the reigning mean girl on the floor. She’s cutthroat and merciless and usually rakes in good numbers. Part of the reason she’s on my team.

“Continue…Grace,” I murmur, lifting my eyes to stare at the intern, my gaze cascading over her features, taking in the brilliant irises of mysterious hues, the smooth complexion without an ounce of makeup, a petite frame hidden in the black atrocity that looks like it was salvaged from the depths of her grandmother’s closet. She looks young and fragile, small and breakable, but something about the way she carries herself tells me she is anything but.

She’s a warrior masquerading as a weakling.

Grace swallows then wets her lips, my eyes involuntarily snagging on the movement and marveling at how her upper lip is perfectly symmetrical, shaped in a cupid’s bow and other shit I don’t usually notice. She clears her throat again.

“As I said earlier, their impressive performance is not translating over to hard cash, and that’s usually a red flag. If we were to dig deeper into the financials and footnotes for the last few quarters, we’d see their inventory balances decreasing in line with the peaks in their cash flows, which may indicate sales of their inventory, normally a positive sign. But if you look at the subsequent periods, the inventory balances will then increase dramatically, and the cash flow would drastically decrease.”

Grace’s voice is assured, and she glances around the room, capturing the attention of everyone as she spins the story she’s seeing in her analysis of the same documents I saw this morning. Bradley’s brows furrow as he stares at her pensively, and Chuck taps his fountain pen on the table in a nervous rhythm. Grace’s eyes find mine again and my lips tip up in the smallest of smiles, encouraging her to go on with her analysis.

Her eyes widen at my expression and a grin tugs at her lips, an impish glint flashing in her eyes. The thread of amusement winding inside me burrows deeper into my chest, and I give her a terse nod.

“This is all conjecture, but from my untrained eye, it seemed odd that they would have large cash flow with low inventory, followed by a drastic drop in cash flow with increased inventory, all the while showing immense profits on their income statement. It almost seems like there’s some massive sale of their inventory at period end, followed by…large returns?”

Grace looks at me, her brows wrinkling, and my fingers twitch, wanting to smooth it off her otherwise unblemished face. It’s just my fucking borderline OCD at work.

The conference room is silent as the lemmings slouch in their seats, no doubt wondering how they were all showed up by a fucking intern on her first day of work. The squeaking of chairs fills the room as folks twiddle their thumbs and turn their heads my way, probably gauging my reaction.

My lips curve into a genuine smile at the only person who dared to speak her mind today. Grace’s lips part in an audible gasp, and I slowly bring my hands up and clap in acknowledgement. The room slowly joins in the applause. Grace’s pale skin flushes pink and she gnaws on her bottom lip with a savagery it doesn’t deserve.

Hayley opens her mouth to speak, and I hold up my hand for silence before turning to the rest of the room.

“I don’t want this to repeat itself. Bring your brains to work and don’t fucking kiss my ass. If you can’t do that, don’t bother coming in,” I command, my voice deep and laced with threats. I stride toward the double doors but pause before I step out of the room.

Turning around, I give the intern one last glance and find her staring down at her lap, her face still pink, a curtain of hair falling over her face.

Curious. Very fucking curious.

Pinning a glare at the three stooges, Hayley, Bradley, and Chuck, I growl, “Fix the damn analysis and have it on my desk within the hour.”

“Honey, getting ready for work?” Mom walks up next to me in the pink pajamas I got her for her birthday as I brush my teeth at five in the morning, already clad in a boxy white blouse, a loose navy cable knit cardigan, and plain black slacks, completed with a pair of practical and no-nonsense leather flats.

I won’t be winning any best dressed awards anytime soon, but the clothes are comfortable, cheap, and meet the professional dress code of the investment bank. I thrifted them for pennies two weeks ago as I was preparing for my internship at Pietra Capital. A thrill thrums inside me as I anticipate stepping into that bright office once again. I went through a rigorous interview process, beating over one hundred candidates for this position.

Change is in the air. I can smell it.

If I do well and get one of the three full-time positions, all our problems will be solved—getting us out of here before our impending eviction and paying off the loan Mom got saddled with when one of her asshole exes duped her into cosigning and then subsequently running off, just for starters. He borrowed from a loan shark and dragged us into the mess.

After spitting out the toothpaste, I grab the cup of water on the edge of the sink and take a big gulp, swishing the minty flavor in my mouth before expelling it down the drain and setting the glass down to the side. I squint at my appearance and straighten my back, determination racing through me.

I’m going to be the best intern they’ve ever hired. They won’t even know what hit them.

My eyes dart to Mom’s reflection, and I grin. “The early bird gets the worm. I’m going to show up earlier and work harder than the other interns there.”

I grab a brush from the small metal ledge affixed to the cracked subway tiles below the mirror and work through the rat’s nest.

“I’m sure you will. You’re so smart and you’ll do a great job,” Mom murmurs as she takes the brush away from me and combs through the knotted strands in the back.

My heart warms at the gentleness in her hands, the way she smooths the strands with her fingertips, her fingernails lightly raking against the scalp, something she has done for me ever since I was a little kid. She used to say it helps with circulation and hair growth.

“You need to brush your hair more often. It’ll—”

“Make it shine, I know, Mom.” I smile, staring at our reflections in the mirror.

Even under the harsh florescent lighting of our tiny bathroom barely big enough to fit the two of us, the resemblance between my mom and me is unmistakable.

Mom is beautiful, stunning really, even now in her early fifties. Her thick brown hair is loosely braided to the side, with a few strands framing her face. Her porcelain skin has only a few telltale wrinkles showing her age, and her eyes, like mine, are a beautiful shade of violet, which in some lighting appear blue. I’ve since learned our eye color is a form of blue eyes and is a result of a rare genetic mutation and less than one percent of the population have them, but the color still surprises people.

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