Page 10 of Hate Notes

His meow seemed to say "I've lived nine hundred years and that's the stupidest thing I've ever heard."

"Nobody asked you, you immortal drama queen."

The way he turned his back to me said everything.

At least I had ice cream.

And a plan.

Sort of.

5

EMBER

It took me approximately two days to create my master plan. Day one wasn't spent planning, though. Day one was a recovery day because I had eaten so much ice cream on day zero that I had to spend most of day one in the bathroom. The magic really happened on day two.

Step one was getting paid by Cole to not work at his company, which was pretty easy once he thought I was going along with his plan. I told him I was going to start working on getting hired by Foster Real Estate, and Cole happily excused me to miss work as long as I gave him the occasional update on my progress.

Easy.

The harder part was getting Orion Foster to hire me.

I blew out a breath of cold air with my hands stuffed in my pockets as I stared up at his obnoxiously large building. The building wasn't what stopped me, though.

A crowd had gathered below the steps leading to the entrance of the Foster Real Estate building despite the early hour, and they looked like they were expecting some kind of show.

There was also a guy waiting out front in a bright red uniform. His shirt and hat had "Hate Notes" written in big letters. I squinted through the morning fog, pretty sure I had seen a commercial for that company once.

Hmm.

I pulled my scarf a little tighter, deciding this may warrant an expert investigation. Of course, I would need to be subtle, unsuspecting, and as sly as a spy.

Then again, it might be easier to just ask somebody.

"What's going on?" I asked a woman who was holding a steaming cup of coffee, her phone already raised in anticipation.

"The CEO of that building is a huge jerk. He pisses off so many people that they write him like twenty hate notes a day."

"Hate notes?" I asked.

"It's this company. Like... imagine your landlord is a total bitch. You pay them five bucks per note, and they'll send a messenger to read it to them in person. Delivery is guaranteed, or you get your money back. You can make them totally anonymous, too."

I grinned. Suddenly, I wanted to send a hate note to Cole. Maybe a few dozen. If only I weren't so damn poor.

Hashtag, rich girl goals. I'd make it go Harry Potter on his ass, with so many Hate Notes flying in his apartment that they'd be bursting out of the fireplace and through the windows.

"So everybody is here to watch his hate notes get read to him?" I asked.

"Yep. But today might be a bust. He always tries to bribe the employees. I think it's a game for him. He offers them more and more money until they finally fold. Then their boss finds out, and they get fired. Rinse and repeat. Honestly, it's peak theater. This is the highlight of my day."

I thought that was a little sad, but I smiled and nodded politely. I also felt a brilliant idea beginning to hatch in my mind. I got a lot of brilliant ideas. Frankly, the real problem was I rarely had the time, motivation, money, or ability to follow through on most of them.

It was only a few minutes before a dark-haired man in a suit and a woman who looked like she might be his sister appeared.

I recognized Orion Foster from my detective work on the internet. Admittedly, calling myself a detective was a bit rich. I basically plugged his name into a search engine and looked at a quick Wikipedia entry about him. I may have lingered on the image search a little longer than strictly necessary. Asshole or not, the man was pretty. I had to give him that much.

He reminded me a little of Jason Momoa, but if Jason only wore tailored suits, had no tattoos, kept himself clean-shaven, and lived life with a stick up his ass. Oh, and his medium-length hair was pushed away from his face in a very CEO-appropriate look. He would do an amazing "getting out of the pool in slow-mo scene" if you asked me.

---