Total pages in book: 85
Estimated words: 87522 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 350(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 87522 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 438(@200wpm)___ 350(@250wpm)___ 292(@300wpm)
Sort of.
It’s all part of the master plan.
A few minutes after I return, Addison walks through the office door.
“Hey, Addie,” I say.
She’s staring at her phone, rapidly typing, when—
“What the hell?” Her cheeks turn a fiery red.
“What is it?”
“This comment. Shit! Why didn’t you delete it?”
“The one from Braden Black? I did.”
“Uh…no, you didn’t. Damn!” She throws the phone against the wall, where it clatters to the floor.
I quickly pull up her Instagram.
Crap.
It’s still there.
I was sure I’d gotten rid of it. I must not have pressed Delete hard enough. That’s not like me. My attention to detail is usually freakishly impeccable. Why did she pick today to actually look at the account?
This time I make certain it’s gone and then read through the rest of the hordes of comments, looking for anything that might reflect badly on Addison or Bean There. Nothing else so far.
Addison picks up her phone. It’s fine. She has the most shock-absorbent cover available. Good thing. She throws the phone a lot.
“Sorry about that,” I say. “I saw it at Bean There and I thought I deleted it then.”
She doesn’t reply.
“Your followers love the photo,” I say, trying to sound cheerful. “Bean There will be happy.”
“Not if they think I hate coffee.”
“It’s gone now.”
“No thanks to you.”
She’s being a bitch, but I can’t fault her this time. I screwed up. I roll my shoulders, trying to dislodge the tension between them. Will she fire me over this? I inhale a deep breath and flip through her last couple of posts. Nothing I need to delete.
“He’s such a douchebag,” Addison says.
Not firing me after all. Good. I look up. “Who?”
“Who do you think? Braden Black.”
“I didn’t know you knew him.”
“For about five minutes the summer after I graduated from high school,” she says. “We had kind of a thing.”
I stop my eyes from widening into circles. “Oh?”
“Yeah.” She taps her foot on the marble floor. “In fact, contact him. He’s not going to get away with this.”
“Sure. I’m on it.”
Braden Black is based here in Boston. Everyone in town knows the Black, Inc. building. I put a call through.
“Black, Inc.”
“Good afternoon. This is Skye Manning from Addison Ames’s office. I’m calling for Braden Black.”
“Mr. Black is in a meeting. I’ll have to take a message.”
“Addison Ames. The number is—”
Addison still taps her foot, hovering above me. “Tell them to connect you to his voicemail.”
I clear my throat. “Actually, I’d like to leave a voicemail, please.”
“Mr. Black prefers a paper message.”
“He prefers a paper message,” I say to Addison.
“Oh, for God’s sake. Give me the phone.” She grabs it from me. “This is Addison Ames. Braden and I go way back. Connect me to his voicemail at once.”
She continues tapping her Prada-clad foot.
“That’s ridiculous. Give me his voicemail, or I’ll have your job.”
More tapping.
Addison huffs. “Fine. Tell him to call Addison Ames right away.” She hands the phone back to me. “See? Douche.”
“That wasn’t him. That was a receptionist.”
“Carrying out the douchebag’s orders. Who the hell doesn’t take voicemails?”
I have no answer for that, so I say nothing.
Addison stomps into her plush private office, shutting the door behind her. Thank God. Time to answer this afternoon’s emails.
Mostly fan mail, and I have a canned response I copy and paste, adding just the name and any other personal details to make it sound like the response is actually from Addison.