Total pages in book: 137
Estimated words: 127991 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 127991 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 427(@300wpm)
“I worked all day. I barely took a break. I didn’t even take time to go on TikTok and see the Nova footage for myself. I wasn’t gossiping or chatting—” I thought of my brief talk with Nataly and hesitated. “—much.”
He grunted.
“And the tweaks I made to your speech were solid, based on the talking points that the team already prepared. If you disagreed with any of them, you could’ve told me—”
“Mmm.”
“So what’s the issue, then?” I demanded, unable to take him ignoring me any longer. “What am I being accused of? Because if I haven’t made it clear, I care about this job, Thatcher. I care about doing it well. And I’d really like a chance to defend myself—”
Finally, Thatcher set his phone facedown and looked at me. “Calm down.”
“Calm down?” I repeated, incredulous. “Are you kidding? Never in the history of humanity has a person calmed down because they were instructed to calm down. And how would you feel if you were being accused of something bad enough that it wasn’t being reported to your boss, or your boss’s boss but to your boss’s boss’s boss? Something that ‘could put people’s livelihood at stake’? Because I’m pretty sure it wouldn’t be with calm.” I slapped my hand on the tabletop for emphasis.
“Reagan.” Thatcher laid his larger hand over mine, holding it firmly in place. His voice was deep and commanding, and I instinctively responded by snapping my mouth shut. “You heard me tell January that you hadn’t done anything, right?”
I breathed in through my nose, which was a mistake because all I could smell was Thatcher—woodsmoke and pine, sage and sex—a scent that fried all of my synapses and… alright, yes, calmed me down. “What does January think I did?”
“January doesn’t think you did anything either.” Thatcher’s voice had dropped even lower now, and he hadn’t let go of my hand. I felt surrounded. Cradled. Like he was holding me together. “You’re not in trouble. Layla made some ill-considered comments, probably because she’s sick and lashing out—”
“Layla?” Just like that, I was amped up again.
“Take a couple of deep breaths, and I’ll explain.” His voice was soothing, but when he squeezed my wrist to get my attention, distracting images of the other night flashed through my mind. Of him pinning me down, taking me.
I closed my eyes tight.
Fuck, I wanted the man. I didn’t want to, and I shouldn’t, but I did, and I was tired of trying to convince myself I didn’t.
I tugged my hand back and opened my eyes. “I’m under control. Please explain.”
Thatcher nodded once. Palms flat on the table, brown eyes squarely focused on me, he said, “Layla implied you might have been motivated to provide that shirt to Nova specifically to create a situation where PennCo would need a social media campaign. Like a firefighter setting a fire.”
“I didn’t.”
“I know. And deep down, Layla probably knows, too. She backed down immediately when January pushed back. January thinks she was frustrated and reaching for any possible explanation. It’s understandable.”
Not to me, it wasn’t. “That doesn’t make it okay—”
“Definitely not.” Thatcher’s eyes blazed. “Which January also told her during their conversation and which I just now reiterated to her by email in no uncertain terms.” He tilted his head at the phone he’d just set down.
“Oh.” I scrubbed a hand over my face. “Well… thank you. But I still don’t get why she’d say that. She knows I don’t have access to clothing samples, much less marketing assets like logos. She knows everyone at PennCo is loyal to her, and they’d hate me for going behind her back, even if they agreed with my idea. Why would she think I’d do something that unethical and unprofessional—”
“Hang on,” Thatcher interrupted. “Back up. Why don’t you have access to the samples or the marketing assets? The logos are on the company intranet. Hell, they’re probably available to the public on the internet. Everyone in PR should have access to them.”
“I haven’t been there long enough, I guess? I don’t know.” He was missing the point. “For the last month, I’ve been as hardworking and professional as I know how. I’ve done every assignment I’ve been given without complaint, even busywork so mundane that one of those feral beavers in Lake Wellbridge could probably have done it. I’ve worked on research and presentations on my own time. I’ve spoken up when I thought I had a good idea and kept quiet—well, mostly—when it didn’t work out. I turned over a whole new leaf, Thatcher. I don’t know how else to prove myself at PennCo. I still can’t get anyone to trust me—”
“I trust you.”
The thrill of those simple, direct words made my chest tingle, though I tried to will it away. “Well, sure. Because it’s, like, a requirement of your friendship with my dad—”