Page 19 of The Worst Guy Ever
He doesn’t bother to conceal his smirk as he walks backwards away from me. I slide into a corner booth, open up my work emails, and groan out loud. Lawrence is relentless, sending me multiple access requests and questions about the project, but always copying in enough colleagues that it makes me look like I’ve fucked up somehow. I haven’t, I know I haven’t. He already has access to all the project files. Why is he even working on a Saturday?
It took me months to get this project and my team into a good place, one where we aren’t having to work until 11pm and all hours of the weekend. I’ve pulled nearly twenty extra hours this week, all because of him. I’ll need to have a word about company culture, make it clear that we don’t pressure each other like this.
That’s how it feels. Pressure. I know it’s him not reading things properly, not listening when I’ve given him instructions. He looks a bit stupid to be honest, but I’ll bet that come Monday there’ll be comments from higher up about his dedication and enthusiasm. He’ll make some smug comment about how he worked all weekend, but it didn’t even feel like work because he’s justso excitedto be here. That’s how it always is with men in advertising. Egomaniacs.
I reply to his most recent email and answer all his questions in one go hitting send just as Rob sits across from me, sliding a tray of food between us.
“Beef burrito, fully loaded. Jalapenos. Nachos with extra guac. Pineapple Jarrito. Sound OK?”
My exact order. I glare at him while I scroll through my memory bank, trying to recall how he would know this. Have we eaten Mexican food together before? Discussed it at a Friday night dinner? I can’t remember. I can’t remember most things we discuss when he’s around, because I’m too busy hating his guts and trying not to get horny.
“That’s perfect. Thank you.”
“So, what’s going on with work?”
“Ugh,” I groan through a mouthful of burrito. “I don’t really want to talk about it.”
“You sure? I’m a great listener, you know,” he says, scooping a crisp tortilla chip through fresh salsa.
“It’s boring. There’s a new guy who’s been assigned to my project without my approval, and he’s getting under my skin.”
“You’re hot for him?” Rob asks, his eyebrows shooting up.
“God no. He’s twenty-four.”
“Hasn’t stopped you before,” he teases.
“Please, stop,” I lean back against the vinyl padding of the booth seats, sulkily. “I’m just feeling paranoid about why he’s here at all. I’m the account director, I’m in charge, things are going well, we’re on budget, the client is happy, the team are happy. Nobody will give me a straight answer, but in my world sneaky moves are made all the time without properly informing or consulting people. So it makes me feel like shit’s about to go down.”
“You think he’s here to replace you?”
“I don’t know. I’ve been asked to bring him up to speed on everything.”
“Hey, maybe you’re getting promoted?” he says. I know he’s trying to help, but it’s pointless, and I don’t trust his motivations, anyway.
“It doesn’t work like that. We have to jump through all sorts of hoops to move up. Nobody justgetspromoted.”
“Is that what you want to do? Move up?”
“Mm-hmm, absolutely,” I say, finishing a mouthful of burrito. “Top job will be mine one day. What’s new with you?”
“Oh look, the ice princess gives a shit.” I roll my eyes and kick him underneath the table, but he grabs the back of my calf and holds it still.
“I’m OK, it’s been a good week at work. A few of my patients have been making really good progress.”
“Thanks to your mind control?”
“Hattie,” he says softly, reaching out to cover my hand with his. “You know that’s not what I do, right?”
“No,” I shrug and pull it away.
“I work in neuropsychology. I’m part of a team who help patients recover from brain injuries. Stroke, head trauma, alcohol related brain damage, that sort of thing. I’m not off manipulating women day in, day out. I help people get their lives back.”
Fuck’s sake. Why didn’t I know that? Now he’s some sort of saint.
“How noble of you.”
“It’s incredibly rewarding.”
