Page 58 of Simply Irresistible
It was pitch black.
33
Tyler
3:25
3:29
3:34
3:35
3:36
Every single day in the office was a race against the clock. Could I make it to five o’clock without running into Melanie?
I messed everything up with her over nothing. She was the best thing I ever had. The worst part is that I hadn’t even attempted to grovel yet, and she at least deserved that. Even if she didn’t give me a chance. She deserved for me to get down on my knees and apologize and beg for forgiveness. I wouldn’t blame her one bit for denying me. But she deserved that opportunity.
3:47
3:51
“Excuse me?”
I looked up from the time in the lower right corner of my computer screen to see an unfamiliar, clean-cut guy in a suit looking nervously at me from across my desk. “Can I help you?” I asked. I hadn’t been expecting anyone and Roger never had appointments with men in his office.
“I have a four o’clock meeting with Roger Hoffstadt.”
I pulled up Roger’s calendar in my computer—the one he never used—and confirmed that there was nothing on his schedule. “I don’t see anything on Mr. Hoffstadt’s schedule. May I ask what this is in reference to?” I asked, picking up the telephone to page Roger’s desk. I was still avoiding speaking to him in person when possible. Given that I rarely saw him before he pissed on my pitch, it wasn’t that difficult.
The guy shifted nervously, and I was sure Roger’s reputation had preceded him. “I’m a chef,” he started…and my hand holding the phone froze. “I’m here to interview for the newGrilling in the Citycolumn.”
My blood ran cold.
Then it ran hot.
So hot.
I slammed the phone down on the desk, not even taking care to place it back on the receiver.
I was done.
I stood so fast, my chair shot out from behind me and hit the wall with a deafening thud.
“After everything I’ve fucking done. This is how it goes.”
“Excuse me?” Nervous Guy asked.
“I wasn’t talking to you,” I said, pointing at him. “If I were you, I’d run far the fuck away from here. Roger Hoffstadt will chew you up and spit you out.”
I turned away from him and stomped over to Roger’s door, swinging it open. The opaque glass shattered when the door hit the wall.
“What do you think you’re doing?” Roger yelled, standing from behind his desk.
“Fuck you,” I said snidely. “You are the biggest piece of shit.Grilling in the City? Who is the writer? George Foreman?”
Roger sneered. “Who do you think you are? You think you could write it? You’re an assistant. You’re my assistant. And you’re fucking fired.”
