Total pages in book: 66
Estimated words: 63311 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 317(@200wpm)___ 253(@250wpm)___ 211(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 63311 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 317(@200wpm)___ 253(@250wpm)___ 211(@300wpm)
“Everyone is in a state at the moment, babes. Acquisitions and mergers are fraught with excess angst and energy. Strap yourself in!” Darwin had chuckled as he sidled onto a swivel chair behind a reception desk and proceeded to show me how to answer phones. Ugh.
That was the tale of two stories to my very weird first week on the job—mind-numbing boredom or extreme stress. No middle ground. And I was still my typical hot-mess self. I’d spilled coffee on the diary Julia gave me, snagged my suit coat on a bathroom stall, and tripped over my own two feet, sending a binder filled with loose paper all over the fucking lobby.
Yeah, not great.
Winnie hummed in all the appropriate places while I griped until a doorbell rang on his end of the call.
“You can do this, Raine. Stiff upper lip and all that British stuff, honey.”
“I know, I know. I’ll be fine,” I assured him.
“Of course you will be. What time is it there?”
I glanced at my watch absently. “Eight o’clock.”
“What are you doing at home, then? It’s Saturday night. Go out, go have fun! Explore the city. Go, go, go. You never know. Maybe you’ll meet your knight in shining armor.”
“Yeah, right.” I rolled my eyes but smiled. “Love you, Win. Tell Max hi.”
News flash: I didn’t go out Saturday night.
I didn’t do much on Sunday, either. I walked through Hyde Park and fed geese the size of small cars before attempting laundry. I hadn’t brought a ton with me, and I’d officially reached the end of my clean clothes pile. Ronan showed me how to work the machine in the building so I was set with fresh boxer briefs, tees, and sweats, but not office attire.
See, office attire at The Horsham Group was a tricky one. If I was with Julia, I definitely needed my suit. But Darwin’s department, on the other hand, was a hodge-podge of business casual and executive chic. Julia wasn’t supposed to be back till Tuesday, so a pair of khakis and an oxford shirt would suffice on Monday. I sent my suit off to the dry cleaner on Friday and bought myself a new oxford shirt at Marks and Spencer and the least expensive sport coat on the rack. Nice enough and the price was right.
It was a good plan with only one teensy smidge of a problem. The shirt I’d purchased was hopelessly wrinkled. I’m talking…it vaguely resembled a balled-up wad of tissue.
I tried to steam out the worst of the creases in the shower, but that didn’t do much. I tried pressing it under a few heavy books I’d found in the living room. No luck. Ronan laughed and handed over his iron.
“D’ add water? You’re good to go, mate,” he’d said with cheerful wave on his way out the door. “Later?”
Easy enough. I added water as instructed, waited for the iron to get good and hot, then flattened the fabric over the kitchen table for two that jutted into the living area. Which, in case you’re curious, was furnished with an oatmeal-colored sofa with saggy cushions, a huge flat-screen, a narrow coffee table, and not much else.
Back to the iron. I passed it lightly over the shirt and it was still wrinkle city. I pressed a little harder and that seemed to work, but I was running out of time now. I needed results faster, especially in the front where people might actually notice if I looked like I’d slept in my clothes. So…I left the iron on the seam near the row of buttons while I rinsed out my coffee mug.
Thirty seconds later…
Szzz Szzz
I spun on my heels and gasped as steam rose in the kind of dramatic plume I associated with trains and espresso machines…not irons. I yanked the cord from the socket and rescued my new shirt from the clutches of the searing behemoth.
Oh, fuck.
Oh, fuck.
Oh, fuck.
A brand in the shape of an iron emblazoned the front of my new shirt like an oversized Monopoly piece patch. No joke. I could have fucking cried. I stared at the still-sizzling fabric, biting a hole through my bottom lip as I weighed my options, quickly realizing I didn’t have any. I had T-shirts and this shirt and nothing else.
The clock was ticking. I didn’t have time to muddle over this dilemma for long, but there wasn’t much to think about. I had my new navy blazer I could throw over either a tee or the ruined oxford shirt this morning and at lunch, I’d book it over to M&S and buy an economical replacement. Good plan.
For the collar alone, the logical choice was the iron-branded bandit. Not great, but hey, I wasn’t cool enough to pull off the tee shirt and sport coat look without giving ’80s British band dropout vibes. I knew my limits.