Butt-dialing the Billionaire Page 7

  He leans in and says something to Varsha. She smiles, enchanted.

  Dave told me that Jack was curious about the butt-dial incident. It’s so Jack to zero in on the exact thing he needs to leave alone. God, is that what they’re talking about? Is he quizzing Varsha?

  I can’t stand it. I head over.

  “Sorry, Jada,” Varsha says, ducking back to her duties.

  Jack is unbothered, as usual.

  “If you’d put half of the energy that you expend screwing around into your work duties, you might actually help us around here.”

  “But what fun would that be?”

  “It would be fun for those of us who give a shit about the company,” I snap.

  “But I’m Don Juan the Entitled Delivery Driver.”

  “You need to stop distracting people, and if you don’t have anything to do, you need to ask us how you can help. And at the very least, you need to look busy when Bert comes through.”

  He makes an exaggerated concerned face that is a hundred percent fake.

  “Fine. It’s your funeral.” I head back to my desk. God, why am I bothering with him? Why should I care if he gets fired?

  Naturally, he follows me. “Big bad Bert.”

  “That’s right.” I sit down.

  “I hear he’s irate over some hilarious butt-dial incident. Some pompous jerk getting the piss taken out of him.”

  “Give it up,” I say.

  “What?”

  “Nobody’s gonna tell you who it was.” I give him my own pretty smile. “Nobody.”

  He looks caught out for a moment, then quickly recovers. “Is that a challenge?”

  “It’s not a challenge; it’s a fact.”

  “Mmmm,” he rumbles. “I think it’s a challenge.”

  “For real, Jack, don’t be a child! You’re so shit at looking busy. Bert would love nothing more than to fire you.”

  “Why would he hire a person only to fire them?”

  “Because he’s dedicated his life to destroying this place and ruining morale.” I wake up my screen, showing that I’m getting to work. Hint hint.

  Jack comes around and leans on my interior cubicle wall. A hint of a smile plays on his full lips, causing his cheekbones to be more defined, more model-like even. Apparently his sexy charisma is the only thing about him willing to work overtime.

  “I can see that Bert’s an asshole,” he says, “but why set out to destroy the company he’s running? Presumably the man wants to keep his position.”

  “Well, I’m telling you that’s how it is.”

  “But it doesn’t make sense.”

  “Not everything that’s true is going to make sense to you. I mean, you packed a vending machine sandwich in your lunch the other day, so…”

  “It’s the sandwich I requested,” he says, doubling down.

  Right then I have this rush of compassion for him. He still doesn’t understand why it was weird.

  “Look, Jack, this was a great place before it got bought, before Bert came. And sometimes it’s frustrating to me that you’ll never know how good it was, and what a privilege it was to work here, even a year ago.”

  I tell him about the good people who fled, leaving me with the work of three senior designers. I tell him about our fun celebrations. Our camaraderie. I don’t know why I’m so invested in Jack’s positive opinion of SportyGoCo in general and our scrappy department in particular, but I really am.

  “It’s just a job,” he says.

  “Excuse me?”

  His warm eyes twinkle. “Just a job that doesn’t produce much beyond misery for people in cubicles, as far as I can tell.”

  My jaw drops.

  “Maybe it should be shut down,” he says.

  “Oh my god! Screw you, because you know what? People here love this company. We care about each other and pull for each other. We’re a family, and family is worth fighting for.”

  “Is it, though?”

  “Excuse me? Is family worth fighting for? That’s what you’re asking? Yes, it is.”

  “Not so sure about that,” he says.

  “What? You don’t think family is worth fighting for? Or do you mean you don’t think this family is worth fighting for?”

  “A little of both, I suppose.”

  My mouth goes dry. I barely have words. “So this family? Just not worth it?”

  He shrugs.

  People are starting to look in our direction. Ughhh, why do I let this guy get to me?

  I take a deep breath. “I’m gonna give you a pass because you’ve only been here for a little while and I get that life has given you some hard knocks. But this is your family now, too.”

  He sighs wearily, as though he hates the very concept of family.

  “Look around you, Jack. Every one of these people here would drop everything they’re doing if you needed them. Maybe things seem bleak here at the moment, and it’s not exactly a living wage for Manhattan, but we’re gonna come out the other side together.” I’m picking up steam, here. I once read a study that showed that if a teacher treats struggling students like they’re top of the class, those students do better. This might be a good strategy with Jack. “You may not realize it, but people have noticed what a fast delivery guy you are. You are already a valuable member of this family—did you know that? You’re part of a tight, loyal, hardworking family who will always pull for each other, no matter what.”

  “A tight, loyal, hardworking family who will always pull for each other, no matter what?” he asks.

  “Yes!” I say.

  “Hmmm.” He drapes an arm over the cubicle wall and gazes wearily at the ceiling, a position that causes his shirt to draw tight over his muscular shoulder. “No, thanks.”

  I straighten. “Excuse me?”

  “The family thing. Hard pass.”

  Outrage courses through me. God, why am I even paying attention to him? I lean in. “Sorry, but you don’t have a choice. You’re here, therefore, you’re part of our family. We’ll pull for you whether you like it or not.”

  “You’ll pull for me?” He wipes an invisible speck from his shirt. “Please don’t.”

  “Too bad,” I say, heart racing. “I’m gonna guess that people were unkind to you at your previous places of work—if in fact there were any—and they may not have had fair employment laws, but you’re gonna find out it’s different here. It’s your first week, so you get a pass.”

  He leans in, all burnt-butter eyes and villainous brows. “I don’t want a pass.”

  “Too bad! You get a pass, Jack.”

  “I reject it,” he says.

  “You can’t reject a pass. I’ve given it already.”

  “I’ve tossed it away,” he says.

  “Sorry,” I say, leaning in. Just a couple more inches and I’d be feeling the coarse brush of his thick five-o-clock shadow on my face. “Once given, a pass cannot be tossed.”

  “I believe it can.”

  “Get a room,” Shondrella says, gliding by.

  “More like a padded cell,” I call after her. “If I have to hear any more out of this one.” I take my seat with a huff.

  “This one’s returning to his cubicle,” he says.

  “Good.” I sit, feeling wild. What was I working on?

  He’s back. He sets his chin on my cubicle wall. “What’s more, this one is going to unmask the butt-dialer.”

  “Why do you want to know so badly?” I demand.

  He smiles his stupidly pretty smile. “At this very moment? Because you don’t want me to.”

  “Knock yourself out.” I stand, and one of my bun pencils slides out and clatters to the floor. “There was a pact before you came, and we honor our pacts. There’s nothing you can do about it. Not one. Little. Thing.”

  “I’ll get it out of somebody.”

  I smile. “No, you won’t.”

  “Won’t I?”

  I lean in. “I’ll see to it that you don’t.”

  He kneels down, scoops up the pencil, and rises back to his usual infuriating height. “I’ll find the weakest link—you know I will.”

  He settles gentle fingers onto the top of my hair as he slides the pencil into my bun. He leans in close and whispers, “And I will mercilessly exploit that link. Mercilessly.”

  He strolls off, leaving me standing there, seething. I yank out the pencil and sit back down.

  I’m letting him get to me. Worse, I may as well have created an engraved invitation for him to make it his life’s mission to unmask me as the butt-dialer.

  I tell myself he’s not the type to tell Bert—I’ve never met a man with more aversion to authority figures. But he’ll find a way to lord it over me if he could. If I was a sweater, he’d probably think he could unravel me.

  I watch him over at the copy machine. You think you can unravel me? Think again, party-shirt peacock.

  Thirteen

  Jaxon

  * * *

  I’m discreetly texting with Arnold, sending him some delivery stuff to collate onto a central Excel sheet. Naturally, he’s taking his own sweet time with it. I find this almost as annoying as the fact that nearly the entire office gang is gathered across the room by the windows.

  The cool kids all gathered by the windows, I suppose you could say, or at least the pathetically struggling office worker version of the cool kids, which isn’t all that cool.

  As a man who’s rather vigorously hated, you’d think I’m used to being excluded from things, but in fact, it’s the opposite. People constantly invite me to their gatherings. My presence adds a note of controversy if not notoriety, a way to spice up an otherwise sure-to-be-boring event. I rarely show up, but I’m always invited.

  Not that I care about being excluded from whatever idiotic display it is I’m seeing here. Some sort of meeting that seems to be led by our resident spitfire, pencil-bun Joan of Arc herself, Jada Herberger.

  They chat excitedly in hushed tones; it’s quite the work family hoedown.

  I focus back on the text, ignoring them. Ignoring her.

  We honor our pacts and there’s nothing you can do about it. Not one. Little. Thing.

  Jada has no idea who she’s dealing with. She and her mighty little attitude and perky posture and perfect little nose. She thinks she can stop me?

  Jada looks happy and radiant, and she seems to be complimenting somebody, lovingly cooing over them.

  I grit my teeth. Whoever could be the unlucky recipient of such an outpouring of love from buzzkill Jada?

  Not that I care to be part of it. It’ll be a one-on-one thing when I find and break the weak link that I know to be here. It’s not as if people divulge secrets when there’s a group listening. Once I get the identity, I’ll determine next steps after that.

  Somebody from shipping is suddenly in my face. “Do you have the stock level update?”

  “Working on it,” I growl.

  He looks at my computer screen where a blue circle bounces around on a field of black. “When do you think you’ll have it?”

  Whenever my valet-slash-personal assistant finishes it—that’s the real answer, but I don’t need to be Workaday Wally to know it’s not the one to give. “You’ll get it when you get it,” I say.

  “What does that mean?” he asks.

  “Soon,” I say, watching the group. Who the hell is Jada so lovey-dovey over? Not that it matters.

  “Pleistocene era soon or today soon?” he pursues.

  I grit my teeth. Life is so much easier when you can dismiss people, like clicking the X on an annoying pop-up window. “You’ll know when it happens,” I inform him.

  He mumbles something and walks off.

  Finally I can’t stand it anymore. I stroll over to see what the fuss is.

  Dave grins. “Have you met Keith yet?”

  A snarl rises up from my chest unbidden. “Keith?”

  “You’d remember if you met Keith,” Dave assures me. “Let Jack see.”

  People shift around. Jada and Shondrella the fiftysomething fashionista are kneeling on either side of a dead cactus—if you can call it that. It’s more like a spindly, spiny six-foot-high husk that used to be a cactus. Shondrella is poking at the dirt with a toothpick.

  “Keith the Cactus,” Jada says, beaming at the thing. “We found him next to a dumpster down on the street and we’ve been trying to rehabilitate him in this sunny window. He’s totally getting better!”

  Is this some sort of joke? It’s obvious the thing is dead. “A garbage cactus,” I say.

  “Rescue cactus,” Jada says. “He has his own Instagram—Keith the Rescue Cactus.” She puts on a baby voice and points at one of the protrusions. “Look at his little arm. He was all alone in the world, and nobody cared about him, but we’re saving him.”

  “Not from the looks of it,” I say.

  She glares at me, lips pursed into a luscious little rosebud of admonition. “Luckily you’re not the be-all and end-all of cactus knowledge.”

  “It doesn’t take a be-all and end-all of cactus knowledge to see that it’s dead.”

  “You’re just saying that because you didn’t see how he was before,” Jada says. “We worked together to research food and pooled our money to get a light meter, and he’s responding—see? Come here.” Lacey shows me a smooth patch of green the size of a thumbprint. “This was all brown before. He’s getting better.”

  “You probably just rubbed off some dirt,” I say.

  “No, man, we’re helping him,” Dave says.

  I’m still eyeing Jada. “Rhymes with bossed jaws.”

  Jada looks confused, then she works it out. Her glare flares, connecting right to my groin. “No cause is ever lost.”

  I don’t know why I should be so irritated by the fact that this woman’s ridiculously fierce loyalty extends all the way to a plant from the garbage.

  “It doesn’t matter what you think, does it? Everybody can see he’s getting better.”

  “Dude,” Dave says. “He’s bouncing back. But you can’t tell Bert. Bert can never know about Keith. As far as Bert is concerned, Keith is just some sad office plant that we never think about.”

  “Wait, what? Bert thinks it’s a sad office plant?” I tease, but people aren’t listening. As if they haven’t irritated me enough, they’re now literally breaking into song.

  “Go Keeeeeith, go Keeeeeeeith, go Keeeeeeith.”

  They’re moving their hands around, singing like the fucking Von Trapps, or Charley’s family, singing Queen songs around the Christmas tree.

  It’s so sweet, so saccharine, it hurts my teeth.

  It hurts my entire soul.

  Fourteen

  Jada

  * * *

  The next day, I head down the back hallway to storage and receiving to check for the package of zipper samples that supposedly arrived, and what do I see? Way down at the end of tall rows of shelving, there’s Jack, playing wastebasket basketball with Nate from accounts receivable.

  Nate is usually a diligent worker, but Jack has managed to corrupt even him.

  They don’t see me—that’s how into it they are. Two grown men throwing wadded-up paper at a trash can they’ve put on a high shelf, all grunts and jump shots—a full-on testosterone-fest.

  I should tell them to get back to work—I really should.

  Nate makes a shot and immediately looks at Jack, who tips up his head in a kind of reverse nod, showing his approval.

  Nate smiles widely.

  I roll my eyes.

  Nate’s a workout machine, a man who moves boldly and heavily, with arms so muscular that they don’t hang flush to his body. Jack, on the other hand, has got leopard-like grace; he shoots and pivots loosely, but he jumps with explosive power.

  Nate makes a long-distance shot. He’s acting nonchalant about it, but I’m sure he’s thrilled to impress Jack, to move deeper into Jack’s rare and special orbit.

  It’s like Jack’s entire life goal is to be as distracting as possible to SportyGoCo workers. He is the worst—he really is. In the fable of the ant and the grasshopper, he’s the ultimate grasshopper.

  I despise grasshoppers.

  Nate gets another reverse nod, and you can see him preen. How can Nate allow himself to be enchanted by this man?

  And Jack. He thinks he’s so hot. The way he struts, you’d think he’s the most eligible bachelor on the planet.

  I shake my head hotly, remembering his words. Of course, wrong has its advantages. There are scenarios where, it could be argued, the wronger, the better. If you know what I mean, and I think you do.

  If my Jersey galpal, Mia, had been there when Jack said that, she’d have kicked him in the balls—Wrong like this, you mean?

  He would’ve deserved it.

  The wronger, the better…if you know what I mean…and I think you do.

  Who wouldn’t? And yes, wrong things can be sexy—it doesn’t take a rocket scientist to know that. And outrageously wrong things can be outrageously sexy.

  I watch him shoot, thinking about wrong things. Things that would be offensive in real life, but sexy in sex.

  Jack, of course, would be an expert in that, being such an all-around offensive man. He probably has whiteboards at home full of advanced mathematical formulas on how to increase his offensiveness.

  But we’re in a workplace, I remind myself. Here in the workplace, wrong is not at all sexy.

  He grunts, blocking Nate’s shot, all fancy footwork.

  Not sexy.

  Naturally, he would want to make sure all womankind is aware that he would deliver on wrongness and forbiddenness. He may as well walk around with a sandwich board sign. Ladies, whatever wrong thing you’re thinking? I will deliver.

  So annoying.

  He does this spin-jump and a wad of crumpled paper arcs into the air and lands in the wastebasket.

  As if he feels me watching, he turns to eye me playfully with those burnt-butter eyes that probably melt other women.

  Nate gets an alarmed look. “Gotta get back.” He beelines up the row of boxes, not meeting my gaze.