Page 69 of The Fake Out

Two minutes later and one minute early, I sat down in front of my computer and pulled up the Zoom link.

“Why do you look like shit?” Jake asked the second my video feed appeared on the screen. “Jesus, Gianna.”

A few of the seven other people on the call covered their chuckles with coughs, and my stomach bottomed out.

“And to think I was going to ask you to meet with the people from the Java NY account.” He shook his head. “Regardless of the new relationship status,” he sneered, “this bedhead, rode hard and put away wet look isn’t professional.”

My mouth fell open and my stomach lurched as a few gasps echoed from my coworkers.

My eyes stung, but I locked my jaw. There was no way I’d allow this man to make me cry. I focused on the anger brewing inside me and hit him with a glare. “Actually, I had to run back from another meeting. I wanted to be responsible and not be late. Unlike some people, I care about being professional.”

Jake blinked twice and ran his thumb and pointer finger over his lips. “Julie,” he said smugly. “Putting you onto the Java account. Gianna, please pass on the Java files.”

A sharp breath escaped me. “What?”

“We’ll talk later.” He reached forward and pressed a button, and in the next second, my screen went black.

Had he seriously just disconnected me from the team meeting? My shoulders tightened, and I blinked repeatedly to keep the tears at bay. Mad. I wanted to be mad. But the moisture wouldn’t stop pooling in my eyes. I ground my teeth and forced my eyes closed.

So what if I’d put over a hundred hours of design work into the account? So what if it was the third time he’d taken me off a project? I bit fiercely into my bottom lip to stop it from quivering.

An email lit my inbox.

From: Julie Cartright

To: Gianna Damiano

I’m so sorry. Want me to say no?

~J

It wasn’t her fault. She’d always been nice. And we’d worked well together. I tried for a deep breath, but it caught in my throat, and my breath hitched.

I replied to the email quickly, telling her good luck with the asshole, and shared the drive with the files. Then I dropped my head into my hands. This wasn’t the end of the world. It was one account. I needed to get a grip.

My phone buzzed on the high-top counter in front of me, dancing and lighting up as Emerson’s name flashed across the screen. Shit, I’d forgotten that I told him we could talk.

With another deep, centering breath, I wiped under my eyes again. Jake’s comment about my hair floated into my mind, so I yanked my portfolio bag open and frantically searched for a hair tie. By the third long buzz, I had my hair up in a topknot. Shoulders pulled back, I swallowed down all my upset and answered the FaceTime request.

“Hey.”

Emerson appeared, already smiling. He was framed by a concrete wall, like he was standing in the tunnels. In the space of a breath, the smile slid from his face, and he tilted his head to the side. His long lashes brushed his cheeks as he blinked twice.

I glared at my own video on the screen, channeling all the composure I could muster.

“What’s wrong?” he finally asked.

I shook my head. “Nothing.”

He hummed. “Angry face. Sad eyes. So tell me what happened. Or, if you’d prefer, I could track down Miller and find out from his girl.”

“What?”

“Miller’s on the road with us, so I can find out what happened between I’m so excited and I’m trying my best not to cry from him, or you can tell me.” He leaned back and crossed his free arm over his chest.

“Dylan was wonderful. It’s just.” I swallowed and then started at the beginning, filling him in on the morning and my meeting with Dylan, the rush to get home, and then the Zoom call.

I didn’t know what I expected when I poured it all out for him. Maybe some sort of reassurance that I looked professional. Or maybe a little anger. Some kind of reaction I’d have to deal with or possibly talk him down from. But all I got was an eerie calm.

---