I’d said nothing.
He assured me nothing had happened. And with as intense and honest as his eyes were, I believed him.
But…
I’d held back a secret of my own.
A recruiter reached out to me through the professional job board that I’m on. Even though I was disgraced, I’d kept the profile active, just in case. She’d asked if I had any interest in interviewing with the Marchand Group, adding that they were prepared to make a generous offer.
Loyal to Xavier, I fired back a polite refusal.
He’d lose his shit and fire me if he had a single hint that I’d talked to another company, especially a rival.
But holding back the information made me a little uneasy.
Fortunately we’ve been so damn busy since then, spending every minute going through the financials, talking about our bid, wondering if we need to increase it.
For me, the bigger problem is, the closer we get to the board meeting a week from Monday, the more I am uncertain of the entire deal. As I told him from the beginning, something isn’t right. I just need more time to figure it out.
Jolting me from my thoughts—thankfully—Tasha strides in like she owns the place. Damn. I’ve only met her a few times, and I’m not prepared for the nonwork version of Tasha.
Her lipstick is fire-engine red and her outfit’s equal parts chic and combat ready. She scans the crowd like she’s casing it for a high-profile arrest, then zeroes in on me.
“Girl.” She plops into the seat across from me, “I am dying. I could eat a pizza the size of a small child. And I need something cold to drink, stat. It’s been a hell of a week.”
There’s a lot of that going around. “We’re in luck. I have room in my budget to chip in on some food.”
Tasha grins back. “That’s all I needed to hear.”
Grinning, I flag down one of our regular servers.
“Rosé?” he asks when he makes it over to us.
“Actually I’m splurging on the chard tonight.”
“Livin’ large. What happened? Did you win the lotto? Rob a bank?”
“Something like that.” I respond in my own teasing way. “But I still want your house wine. You, know, the one on the happy-hour menu.” No matter what happens in future, I’ll never forget the feeling of not having enough money to pay my bills.
I order a drink for Lila as well. Then Tasha tells him to surprise her with something fruity and wonderful.
He eyes her as if he’d like to surprise her with something more as well.
“I think we’ll get extra good service tonight.”
We both laugh.
A few minutes later, Lila arrives, looking unfairly good for someone who’s allegedly “between toner cycles.” She waves, drops into the remaining chair, and eyes us both over her sunglasses. “Ladies.”
Our drinks arrive—two chardonnays and whatever concoction Tasha ordered. Suspiciously it’s the same color as a traffic cone. Then we order a mushroom and truffle oil pizza to share, and suddenly it feels like the world is a little less brutal.
Being with friends, laughing, drinking makes me forget everything that’s going on at work.
Until Tasha drops a bomb.
“Okay, so. Hypothetical. What if I told you I’m trying to get a job working with Lane Marchand?”
I choke on my wine. Marchand? Xavier’s nemesis? Why does his name keep coming up?