Page 16 of Sassy Love
My laptop pings.
Reminder: Exec Meeting – Serelle.
Hell, that’s why he left. Shit.
I bite a muffin and swipe up my coffee and hightail it from the fishbowl and through the desks after Rawlins. But unlike his trip past the desks, nobody is chatting or stopping what they’re doing to say hello to me.
This is his angle?
Make everyone love him, so they hate me?
Rub my shortcomings in my face?
Right, Cowboy.Game on.
The pink sticky note that moves with the air funneling down from the central air system sticks to the top ofhislaptop.
I scroll through the last quarter’s marketing plan and PR notes. It’s not much to go on, but from what I can gather, the efforts were pretty minimal. And the health of the business sadly reflects that. That’s one thing Rawlins and I agree on, at least.
The telltale swoosh of a sent email sounds as I finish up a request for a meeting with Serelle to hash out some better, more effective ideas for the shelter. I mean, I could just go ahead and plan all this out—after receiving the budget, that is.
But I would rather know the lay of the land and what she’d like me to work on than get halfway through my grand plans, only to be shut down because it’s not what is usually done.
The glass door opens, and Rawlins walks to his desk, phone in hand, not looking away from the screen for a second. With only five minutes to lunch, I pin him with my gaze, waiting for him to find the pink sticky note.
My written request.
Email, my ass. He has it on his computer—in detail, no doubt—it would take less than a minute to copy and paste that section of his financial report and send it on.
“Can I help you?” he says, still not looking up from his phone.
“You can start by putting your personal business aside at work.”
He tosses his phone beside his laptop. “What, the coffee and muffins were from your other personality?”
My mouth gapes, and I snap it shut.
I will not lose my cool.
I will not lose my cool.
I will not lose my cool.
I point a manicured finger at the sticky note on his computer.
Running a hand through his brown hair that looks like it would feel like silk to sink my fingers into, he peels the note from his Mac.
“In writing, as requested,” I say with the most saccharine tone I can rouse in his vexing presence.
Looking up, he tilts his head as if considering something. Without a word, he crumples the sticky note in his fist and tosses it into the trash, making it in from his side of the desk.
Show off.
He rolls his chair forward and opens his computer. A few seconds later, my email pings.
Rawlins, Lawson -Request Denied.
“The fuck? This isn’t a game. I need those numbers, Rawlins.”
