Page 119 of Crazy for this Girl

Yeah, this isn’t going to work.

I took this job to work with Elliott and anyone else.

But, Cal Harper, hell freaking no.

I’d rather have a root canal. I’d rather date that guy that brought his teddy bear to our date and marry him. I would happily shave all my hair off before having to live my life day by painstaking day with Cal Harper as my new boss.

“I’ll read it over this weekend and email you any revisions I may need for you to look at.” I stare at him for a few seconds before he says, “You can speak now, Miss Reese.”

“I quit.”

His brows go immediately to the ceiling as if he’s slightly surprised.

He shouldn’t be.

We used to be best friends, after all. However, I grew a backbone in the last decade.

“Excuse me?”

“I said I quit, Mr. Harper. I’m officially putting my two weeks in as of this very second.”

He folds his fingers together over his new desk, staying in possession of a placid expression. “Per Elliott, you’re under a two-year contract.”

“Fully aware.”

“Which means if you breach it, there could be legal ramifications.”

I nod knowingly through my rapid heartbeat that’s currently pelting the inside of my ribcage. “Only if you create them, Mr. Harper. We’re in Chicago, your prospects are many.”

Cal stares at me, and I’m not sure if it’s a scare tactic or if he doesn’t know what to say. He either calls my bluff or plainly lets me go peacefully on my way.

It’s not that hard.

But Cal likes to make it that way. He enjoyed pushing me to my limit. He made it a mission to drive me insane. He vowed things that never came true, and the younger me, the one who held on to hope, died a long time ago.

The woman sitting in front of him now just can’t deal with the fake pleasantries and crap. Since moving to Chicago, I’ve gone through enough, and he’s invading my space.

“Miss Reese, I’m finally taking over this company that was given to me by my piece of shit father, and the last thing I need to handle right now is finding a new assistant. My cousin tells me you’re good at what you do. I don’t doubt it. However, I am doubting your ability for professionalism and—”

“Is he sick?”

“What?”

“Your father, is he sick, Mr. Harper?”

“He’s dead.”

Shit.

I straighten my spine against his unyielding stare and still hold on to the complicated fact that I still can’t work for this man. I’ll lose my mind.

Don’t feel sorry about his dad. He never liked him anyway.

“I’m truly sorry to hear that, Cal.”

“It’s Mr. Harper.”

Right.

---