The Billionaire's Heart (The Silver Cross Club Book 4) (2 page)

“God, please,” I said. “That sounds incredible.” How sad was it that the bright spot in my morning was free office coffee?

He laughed and stood up. “Maybe I’ll even make a fresh pot,” he said. “Kerry’s been here since 8, and you know she always fucks it up.”

“Pour it down the drain,” I said. “All of it. The entire pot.”

“I heard that,” Kerry yelled from her cubicle.

Tom laughed again and headed in the direction of the break room.

I sat down and turned on my computer, opening up my calendar to see what I had scheduled for the day. Useless department meeting in the afternoon, team lunch about the new client, and of course, the appointment I’d been dreading for the past week: a mid-morning chat with my boss to review the latest concepts I’d put together.

It wasn’t that I wasn’t ready. I was; I’d had everything completed for days, now, and I
knew
my work was top-notch.

It was just that, well, my boss was an asshole.

Tom returned with coffee and handed me a cracked mug that read “World’s Best Mom!”

“You’re hilarious,” I told him.

“Mom to tiny, adorable design concepts, ready to go make their way in the world,” he said. “You’re meeting with Mr. Potato Head today, huh?”

“Don’t remind me,” I said. Our boss’s name was Steve, but we always called him Mr. Potato Head due to an unfortunate resemblance, and also the fact that he was roughly as intelligent as a potato. Not even a Yukon Gold: more like one of those really sad, lumpy baked potatoes you got at a third-rate steakhouse.

“Hey, your stuff looks great,” Tom said. “It’s what you showed me last week, right? Yeah, it looks great. Don’t let the man get you down.”

“If only the man didn’t control my paychecks,” I said dryly.

Tom shrugged. “You know how to manage him. It looks great, though, seriously. He won’t be able to find anything to complain about.”

I wasn’t convinced, but I just thanked him and turned back to my computer. I had time to make a few changes before my meeting. I wanted everything to be exactly right.

At precisely five minutes to 10, I gathered my things and went up one flight to Potato Head’s office. If I was early, he would complain that I was rudely interrupting his important business; if I was late, he would accuse me of wasting his time. I timed it so that I was waiting outside his office right on the dot of 10, when he opened his door and gestured me inside.

“Sadie, right on time,” he said. “Good thing, too; don’t want to keep me waiting.”

What did you even say in response to that? I gave him a tight smile and sat in the chair placed in front of his desk.

He ponderously lowered himself into his massive leather executive chair and folded his hands on top of his desk. “So, what do you have for me?”

“I finished the mock-up that you asked me to do,” I said, handing him a manila folder. “I included a few variations on the concept, so that you’ll have a number of options to choose from. I can also easily incorporate elements of one version into any of the others, if you’d like a combination I haven’t specifically presented here.”

“Hmm,” he said. “Well, let’s take a look.” He opened the folder and began working his way through.

I sat at the edge of my chair, heart pounding.

The concepts I’d mocked up were great. They were
awesome.
There was no way that Mr. Potato Head would be anything less than thrilled with my work.

That was what I kept telling myself, at any rate.

“Hmm,” he said again, and flipped to the next page.

Was that an encouraging noise or not? I couldn’t read the man to save my life, even after working for him for years. Maybe it had something to do with how he was an unpredictable, power-hungry sociopath.

Not that I disliked him or anything.

He went through the folder I’d given him one sheet of paper at a time, lingering so long over each page that I was practically vibrating with impatience by the time he closed the folder and looked up at me. “Well, Sadie,” he said, “this is certainly… interesting.”

Interesting was good, right? I sat up a little straighter.

“You had very specific instructions for this project, though, and only one of these concepts meets the requirements.” He frowned at me, and my heart sank. “The rest of this is useless, and a waste of company time.”

I felt my face flush hot with anger, and I was glad my skin was dark enough that he wouldn’t be able to tell. I fought to keep my voice steady. “Actually, I did most of that on my own time, in the evenings. I understood the guidelines, but I thought that maybe it would be useful to explore a broader range of possibilities, in case—”

He shook his head. “I’m afraid not. I’ve spoken to you about this before, Sadie. You’re a gifted designer, but you don’t seem to understand that we have a corporate image to project. Consistent branding is the key to success. The way you keep going off-message—well, it makes me think that this just isn’t the right fit.”

Cut through the manager-speak, and it sounded like he was firing me. My pulse thumped loudly in my ears. “I’ll do better,” I said, ignoring the pleading, desperate note in my voice. I could
not
afford to lose this job. “I won’t make extra versions anymore. I’ll just do exactly what you tell me to, and—”

“It’s too late for that,” he said. “You just aren’t a team player. You don’t have the right mindset for this job. I’ll contact HR about your final paycheck. Please have your things out of your cubicle by the end of the day.” He closed the folder and handed it to me.

I took it with numb fingers. Had he really just fired me?
Me
? After all of the unpaid overtime I’d put in, the pet projects I’d worked on for him at the expense of my
actual
job, the three major clients I’d convinced to stay with the company after they were ready to walk—all of that, and he was
firing
me?

“I’ll be happy to give you a good reference, of course,” he said.

That was the final straw. I stood up, blood boiling in my veins, and said, “You know what?
Screw
you. I don’t need one. Have fun with your pathetic little life.”

Maybe that was petty, but I didn’t care. I was so angry I could hardly see straight, and I tripped on the stairs as I made my way back to my cubicle.

God. What was I going to
do
?

I had bills to pay, and absolutely zero leads on a new job.

My computer was still turned on at my desk, with my most recent revisions pulled up on the screen, glowing brightly, mocking me. I sat in my chair and stared at the screen without seeing anything.

It looked like it was time to go freelance.

“How’d it go?” Tom asked, breaking my reverie.

“I got fired,” I said. The words felt strange in my mouth. I tried again. “Potato Head fired me.”

There was a long pause. “What?”

I looked up and saw my own shock reflected in Tom’s face. “He told me I’m not a team player,” I said.

“He’s delusional,” Tom said. “He can’t have—did he really
fire
you?”

“I’m supposed to remove all my things by the end of the day,” I said. “So yes.”

“That’s not—he can’t
do
that,” Tom said.

“I’m afraid he can,” I said. “He’s the boss.”

Tom blew out a slow lungful of air. “Shit. What are you going to do?”

Well. That was the question.

* * *

First, I decided, I was going to get drunk.

That was pretty easy to accomplish. I left the building, hauling the cardboard box with all of my things in it—my stapler, my granola bars, the pictures of the Bahamas I’d tacked to my cubicle wall—and headed for the bar down the block where we always went for happy hour. Well: where I used to go with my former co-workers. There would be no more happy hours for me.

The bar was almost empty at that time of day, which was a small mercy. I didn’t want to interact with anyone. I ordered a beer and sat at one end of the bar, my box on the stool beside me, and planned my next move.

I needed a job, but more than that, I needed a
plan
. I had spent the last year just going through the motions, some twilight creature who ate and worked and exercised but didn’t really
live
.

I thought maybe I was ready, now, to be alive again.

The problem was how best to go about resurrecting myself.

I ordered a second beer, and dug a notebook and pen from my box. I turned to a blank page and wrote SADIE’S LIFE PLAN at the top, and underlined it with a thick, dark line. I was a big fan of lists. There was usually so much stuff bouncing around in my head that the only way to keep track of it all was to write it down.

My top priority, of course, was getting a job.
Find interesting work
, I wrote, and underlined
interesting
. God, I’d turned into such a princess. There were more important things in life than having a rewarding, interesting job. Like not getting evicted. But this was my LIFE PLAN. I might as well go all out.

Go on a date
. At least that would get Regan off my back.

Adopt a pet.

Stay out all night dancing.
I hadn’t done that in ages.

I hesitated, and then wrote,
Clean out the apartment.

And,
Maybe move
.

I crossed that one out. Not yet.

My life plan was turning out to be surprisingly boring. When had I become a boring person? I used to be fun.
Be more fun
, I wrote.

Too vague. What did
fun
even entail? Getting really drunk and sleeping with people I barely knew? That was what I had done during college, at least. I was probably too old for that now. Or not too old, really. Just too sad.

Don’t mourn. Be happy.

Disgusted with myself, I tossed everything back in the box and put on my coat. If I was going to be a maudlin sad sack, I might as well do it at home.

I started looking for jobs that evening. There were a lot of positions available—I did, after all, live in New York—but none of them seemed very appealing. It was mostly the sort of boring corporate work that I’d been doing for the last five years, and I was sick of it. I wanted room to be creative, not just march in lockstep with the company paradigm.

Interesting work, my ass. Who was I kidding? I needed to put on my big girl panties and find something that would pay my bills.

Grimly, I opened my resume and started tailoring it for the least distasteful job.

I thought about what Carter had said, about all the people he knew who were desperate for a good designer. I hated accepting handouts, but I really didn’t think my spirit could survive another five years of some horrible office job.

Anyway, it wasn’t really a
handout
, I told myself. It was just
networking
. I was appropriately utilizing my social connections.

I would apply for five jobs, I decided. Just to make sure I was covering all my bases. And I would talk to Carter, and see what he had in mind.

I put it off for two days. I stayed in my apartment like some sort of cave-dwelling gnome and fooled around with my portfolio until I got sick of my own procrastination and buckled down. I applied for three jobs, made another pot of coffee, painted my toenails, watched some online videos of baby goats, and then admitted to myself that I was avoiding making the phone call out of sheer, stubborn pride, and dialed Carter’s number.

He picked up on the third ring. “Sadie, what a pleasant surprise,” he said.

I grinned. “I can’t tell if you’re being sarcastic, so I’ll just assume that you’re delighted to hear from me,” I said. “Are you busy? I don’t really care, you shouldn’t have answered if you are. So you remember what we talked about the other night, about freelancing?”

He huffed out a soft breath of air. Amused, I decided. “I’m never too busy to talk to you,” he said. “So you’ve decided to go rogue?”

“Well, sort of,” I said. “The thing is, I got fired.”

He was quiet for a moment. “You haven’t spoken to Regan yet, I take it.”

“No,” I admitted. “And don’t you tell her, either. I’ll call her.”

“You have two days, and then I’m spilling the beans,” he said. “I know she fusses, but she deserves to hear it from you. Lecture over. So, you need a job.”

I nodded, and then remembered that he couldn’t see me and said, “Yeah. I’ve sent out a few applications, but…”

“But,” he prompted.

“But none of the jobs sound all that interesting,” I said, and sighed. “I’m so spoiled, right? I feel ridiculous, acting like I deserve
interesting
employment. But, you know. I’m tired of working for the man.”

“How do you feel about working for
a
man?” he asked. “I told you I know people who need good designers. I’ve got a friend who’s running a clean water start-up, and I’d be happy to put you in touch with him, if you’re interested.”