Page 12 of Waiting for Acceptance
Maybe it’s better that she hates me after all. Seeing as how I can’t seem to wipe her from my memory no matter how hardI try; her hatred for me may be the best-case scenario. We are working together now, and sleeping with your co-workers never ends well. Or so I hear. So if she has to hate me in order for me to keep her at arm’s length, then so-fucking-be it. Following that thought are the three angriest knocks I’ve ever heard in my life.
Trouble.
“Something I can help you with?” I glance at her over the top of my computer screen and see her tip her chin up slightly. Little vixen, wearing tights and a mini skirt I’d like nothing more than to rip right off her. Her short black hair sits right at her shoulders in loose waves, barely hitting the fabric of her black turtleneck. When my eyes finally make it up to hers, they roll in the back of her head and my hand fists at the sight.
“Telling me how to do my job, apparently,” she mumbles and I can’t help but smirk. She’s full of fire and rage, this one.
“Well, then we have a lot to discuss.” Her features turn to stone as she comes in and drops her things in the chair right inside the door.
“So where are we doing this? In here? The conference room? A cell?” I swallow down the laugh that dares to escape and lean back in my chair, crossing my arms over my chest.
“Shut the door.” I tip my chin up and her cheeks turn red.
Is that fury or anticipation I see, Trouble?
She does as she asked and when she faces me again she lifts a brow at me.
“Did I pass the first test?”
“Are you just determined to make this a miserable experience for yourself or is this just part of your charm?”
“Aww. You think I’m charming?” She bats her eyelashes at me, purely out of spite I’m sure, and I realize this is going to be significantly harder for me than it will be for her. Because while she gets to keep her disdain for me during this mandatory training evaluation, I have to look at her every day for howeverlong is deemed necessary, remembering how she tastes and the way she looks when I make her come. The eye rolls are going to have to stop or I’ll likely do something completely unprofessional, and this time, unforgettable.
“Sit.” She narrows her eyes into slits then walks up and takes a seat in the chair right in front of my desk. “Good. Let’s begin.”
I loathe my father for making me fly back to New York the day before Christmas Eve. I understand wanting me home for the holidays so my mother doesn’t give him an ear full about their only son missing Christmas, but it wouldn’t have killed him to have me come home a few days sooner. Every inch of this airport is packed with people in a panic over missing their flights, and more luggage than one person should ever have to look at. I pull my hood up and slump further in my seat as I wait to board, scrolling through emails to kill time.
I pull up a thread from last week, smirking at some of the fiery responses I received from Lauren. She still thinks this is some sort of punishment or the result of some kind of poor reflection on her work—when in reality, it’s quite the opposite. I just find it more fun to watch her stew in her anger as I make her give me presentations on market value, interest rates, and break things down as if I’m a first-time agent or problem-solve things only people in much higher positions in the company would ever have to deal with. She’s excellent at what she does, so much so none of this training is remotely necessary, but I’m not ready to stop playing this little game with her.
“Now boarding group A.” I scan my ticket from my phone, sit down in first class, and let my head fall back on the seat as Ibrace myself for the week and a half of Christmas in hell before flyingbackout to Nashville to continue with my assignment. Two hours is not a long enough flight for me to prepare myself for this.
“Anything to drink for you sir?”
“Scotch, neat.”
And probably keep them coming.
Once the plane lands and we de-board, my phone immediately starts flooding with text messages from my mother, absolutely ecstatic that I am home and I can practically hear her squealing through all the exclamation marks on my screen.
My relationship with my mother is…fine. She always seems excited to see me, but the thing about my mother is she was so desperate for this lavish life, she goes along with anything my father wants. Anything he says or does that makes him the one person on earth I wholeheartedly loathe, she cowers at his side and says nothing. Which makes it hard to have a positive relationship with her when she so willingly lets him act the way he does. Christmas at the Fitzgerald house is always extravagant, but this house, the food, and these people, aren’t whathome for the holidaysshould be. It should be a wood burning fireplace, Christmas carols playing on an old radio in the living room, a kitchen full of turkey, dressing, mashed potatoes and cranberry sauce, and laughter. Lots and lots of laughter—and not the fabricated kind that sells someone something over catered in food served on fine china.
I’m probably the only person in the universe who wishes their flight back home had gotten canceled today.
“Fitz!” I stiffen as my mother calls my name from the steps of their extravagant townhome. I would expect nothing less from Mr. & Mrs. New York Real Estate.
“Hello, mother.” I force a smile and her features soften. I feel a little guilty sometimes that I don’t get more excited about coming home. Then I remember that thiswasn’tmy home for most of my adolescence and then all that guilt turns into some form of resentment, disdain, or in a lot of cases, indifference. “What’s on the agenda for the night?” I ask, as she links her arm through mine as we walk into the house.
“No agenda tonight. I thought you and I might go shopping on Fifth Avenue while your father is working. Maybe spend some quality time together?” I can’t think of a single time in my life my mother has ever requested to spendquality timewith me, and even though I get the sneaking suspicion that she has some kind of ulterior motive for wanting to go, I agree. Afterall, what reason do I have not to?
“Sounds great. What time should we go?” Her whole face lights up when I don’t argue the matter and a small smile makes its way onto my face as well.
“I’ll have the car pick us up in about an hour. Is that enough time for you to get settled?” she asks, a smile stretched wide across her face.
“Yes ma’am.” She scoffs and swats my arm.
“You and those southern manners. Your father made a mistake sending you down south,” she jokes. I remain silent as I head upstairs to put my things in the spare room, knowing all too well there would have been a fight over my wanting to stay at myownhome tonight and risk the chance of not seeing my father on my first night in town. I’ll make my way home sometime tomorrow. Maybe I’ll be lucky enough to get stuck there, snowed in perhaps, until my flight departs after New Year’s.
CHAPTER 7
