Total pages in book: 102
Estimated words: 97865 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 489(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 97865 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 489(@200wpm)___ 391(@250wpm)___ 326(@300wpm)
The rest of the afternoon continues on painlessly. Theo is consumed with call after call. Around lunchtime, I bring him his lunch order, and he barely looks my way. When I sit back at my desk, I get an email notifying me that our working lunch is canceled. I avoid the breakroom in case of Julie sightings and eat my lunch at my desk. A call comes in, and I finish chewing and answer. “Mr. Monroe’s office.”
“Fable, honey, it’s Mom.”
“Mom, you know I can’t talk at work.”
“Well, I wouldn’t call you there if you returned my calls on your cell phone.” Yeah, it’s the freedom to be an adult and choose whether to call your parents back.
“I’ve been super busy.”
“You should never be too busy to call your parents.”
“Got it! So, what’s up?”
“Well, my book club has to bake cookies for a library fundraiser.”
“Wow, sounds super exciting.” Not.
“Yes, well. I mentioned how you were a chef—”
“Am a chef.”
“There’s going to be a judge. The winner receives a gift card to the Olive Garden in Times Square.”
“And you thought to call and bother me at work to tell me this?”
“Oh, Fable, I was hoping you would join us tomorrow morning. Give the ladies a tutorial. Maybe bake a few batches.”
Leave it to my mother to bash my career path in cooking and then ask me to cook. “I don’t know, Mom. I have this fancy benefit dinner tonight with my boss. It will probably be a late—”
“As in the man you work for?” Yep, that’s him. “Is that in your job title, honey? You should really go ask somebody.”
I’m not sure a lot of the things I do are in my job title. Mainly, getting finger banged by the boss. “It’s not a big deal.”
“It is if he’s taking advantage of you.”
“It’s fine.”
“I think you should talk to your father.”
“Why would I need to talk to Dad—”
“Gerald!”
“Mom, no! Don’t get Dad—”
“Hello?”
Why do they do this? “Hi, Dad.”
“Hey, it's my favorite daughter.”
"I'm your only daughter." I roll my eyes.
“Fay has some fancy dinner she has to go to tonight with her boss,” Mom says.
“Your boss? Why?”
“Why what?”
“Why is he taking you? What happened to that blonde?”
“What kind of dinner is this?”
I inwardly groan. “It’s like a charity event at a hotel. You dress up, eat fancy food, and dance. . .”
“Honey, you don’t even know how to dance,” Mom interjects.
I roll my eyes. Not the point. “Fine, I’ll bake cookies. Anything else?”
“Wonderful. There’s a train that will get you here at nine in the morning.”
“Great, see you soon!” I hang up, falling back in my chair, wondering why I'm going to this “work function.” Why is he taking me over his girlfriend?
Maybe she’s busy at a modeling event. Or winning an award for being so perfect. Or maybe she’s—
“Am I interrupting something?” I snap out of my daze and look up to see Theresa standing on the other side of my desk.
“Nope. What’s up?”
“I need you to sign these.” She tosses a packet of papers on my desk.
“What’s this for?” I ask.
“Your raise. Congrats, by the way. You must be doing a stellar job.”
How wrong would it be to slap the head of HR? “Yep, I sure am. You really can’t get employees like me nowadays. The big fella in there finally realizes my worth.”
Theresa’s fake smile falls.
“You know what? You can leave these here, and I’ll bring them to you. Want to make sure everything is correct. No spelling errors and whatnot.” I can practically hear her teeth grinding.
“They need to be submitted by the end of the day.”
“Sure thing!” Without another word, she whips around and disappears back to her office. “Bitch,” I mumble under my breath. Seriously, what’s everyone’s problem? Well, they all think you’re sleeping with the boss. Pfft. Sighing, I wake up my computer and read over the mile-long to-do list Theo emailed me earlier.
When I finally look up, it’s just past five o’clock. Theo is stuck on a call, so I wave goodbye, reminding myself everything between us is all in my head. The possessive and lust-filled looks he gives me are a figment of my imagination.
I need to nip this toxic attraction in the bud. Take a nice set of clippers and chop it off at the root. I definitely don’t need to go to this dinner. It’s wrong. Whatever the reason, he shouldn’t take me. The smart thing would be to text him and say I’m not feeling well and can’t make it. I climb up the three flights to my apartment, slowing my steps when I see a man standing outside my door, holding a large box.
“Can I help you?” I ask.
“Miss Evans?”
“Maybe. Who wants to know?”
The man laughs, extending his arm. “Fredrick, honey. Mr. Monroe sent me. I have a special delivery.”
“What’s in the box?”