Page 17 of Sassy Love
He stands, walking to the wall behind his side of the desk where a large whiteboard hangs on the wall. He starts writing up some sort of mind map, complete with figures from the original report we studied during onboarding.
I study him for a moment. Sleeves rolled up, marker scrawling across the shiny white surface as he brain-dumps notes beside each designated bubble.
And I would have to be dead not to notice his shirt straining over his shoulders and biceps, his tight, round ass...
Shit.
Annoyed and needing to get my own work done, I return to the last quarter planning and reports and open a fresh blank document. I create two subheadings, ‘old style’ and ‘Lamont style.’
I set two columns in the doc and save it to my personal drive just in case. I have a ton of contacts from working for Carlson for ten years and good relationships with vendors and events people from all over the city. Surely, since this is definitely a good cause, arranging promos and marketing events should be a breeze, right?
When I check out the shelter’s socials and website, my hope deflates. The website is old, outdated, and houses almost nothing helpful for either women in need or potential donors. This will all need to be overhauled. Which means another hit to the budget. Let’s hope that it is substantial enough to cover the upgrades I know it’s going to require to move this place off the dire list and onto the thrive list.
I’m mid-hunt into my contacts for potential event ideas when my email pings. Hopeful, I flick over to the app. But my hope dies as quickly as it bloomed when it’s Serelle, confirming a meeting.
Starting in ten minutes.
Guess I’m winging it.
It would be great to have those numbers before I head in. Maybe I can ask her for the reports, or where to find them. Deciding it’s best to be early, I gather up my laptop and phoneand head for the door. When I reach Serelle’s office, Nadia is inside, singing the praises of none other than Rawlins.
God, this girl has it bad.
Guess that small-town charm of his works on this basic bitch.
Figures.
“Come in, Carlie. We’re done here.” Serelle waves me in.
Nadia gives me a tight smile as she slips past me and through the door. I sit in the chair and set my laptop and phone down.
“How’s your first week?” Serelle asks.
“Good. Fine.”
She smiles as if she knows something I don’t. “Excellent. What can I do for you?”
The meeting goes as I expected. She shows me where to find the reports but shuts down my better ideas in favor of more conservative ones.
Just what I was afraid of.
If her preferred tactics worked, they wouldn’t be scrambling each quarter. If it’s out of your comfort zone, it’s most likely what you’re supposed to aim for. Apparently, not everyone got that particular memo.
I make my way back to the fishbowl to find it vacant.
But as I push through the door and cross to the desk, I find a clutter of sticky notes—mypink sticky notes—stuck over my end of the table. Each one inscribed, in the most annoyingly neat cursive, with a category or department and the spending or budget.
The thought that sears through my mind hangs on the fact that Rawlins and his big mitts went rifling through my stuff.
The whiteboard is cleaned of his previous scribbling and diagrams. And in the center, an elegant short sentence in the same perfect cursive is handwritten on a slight angle in pink marker.
You’re welcome, Princess.
My marker, that currently stands on its end amidst the sticky notes plastering my desk like a lone knight amongst a sea of fallen fuchsia foe.
Fucking Rawlins.
Chapter 6
