Total pages in book: 69
Estimated words: 66184 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 331(@200wpm)___ 265(@250wpm)___ 221(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 66184 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 331(@200wpm)___ 265(@250wpm)___ 221(@300wpm)
I should be bothered by their bad attitudes, but instead I want to kiss their faces until at least their eyes are smiling. I want to do things to them that will make them cry out my name as they lose control.
And I’m very proud of myself for reining in these desires well enough to focus on business.
Before I reach my office, I see Owen again. He’s walking in the opposite direction and gives me a smile and a wave as we pass.
He’s actually really attractive, but he doesn’t stir feelings inside me like Grump and Grumpier do. What’s wrong with me that I’m attracted to grouchy men instead of nice guys?
Not that I want to date anyone at work, but Owen should be my type. He’s handsome, pleasant, and good at conversation. Even Charles should be more appealing than two men who act like storm clouds are permanently positioned over their heads, and who seem determined for everyone else to share in their misery.
CHAPTER 17
DEREK
She has a great set of tits and the sexiest brown eyes I’ve ever seen, but she looks even better from the back, even in that skirt, though I prefer it when she’s wearing nothing at all.
“She was a good decision,” I say after she exits Jansen’s office.
“If you’re talking about the decision to hire her,” he says, “that remains to be seen.”
“She has her shit together better than the rest of them did.”
“She talks a good game, but I’ll wait to see if she follows it up with action.”
I’ve seen her in action, and that was impressive, too, but I get what he means. The girl is clearly smart, though, and full of optimism. I hope the world doesn’t drag her down.
We shouldn’t be the jerks that drag her down.
“What the fuck?” Jansen’s back at his computer, and his outburst barely draws my attention, because it’s nothing new. But then he rises to his feet, his eyes still fixed on his laptop screen, and one of his fists pounds the desk. “What the actual fuck?!”
“What is it?”
When he doesn’t answer, I push in beside him to get a look at his screen. I read the beginning of the email twice, then I join him in pissed-off confusion.
It’s a cryptic message from some bullshit email address, saying something about how Community Bean is a fraud, how we don’t source our beans the way we claim, and that our charitable claims are vastly exaggerated.
“What absolute garbage,” he mutters.
“Did you see the end? They say they’re going to expose us.”
“There’s nothing to expose. Probably just some disgruntled former employee.”
My temples burn with an instant headache. “It could be trouble.”
“I’m deleting it.”
CHAPTER 18
ANA
To help foster a welcoming environment, I plan to keep my office door open anytime I’m not involved in a confidential meeting or phone call. And it’s with my door open that I hear strange warbling sounds in the outer office that afternoon.
Pausing from tapping on my keyboard, I strain to figure out what I’m hearing. Now it sounds more like … moaning?
Concerned that someone’s in pain, I go to my door and look out, but I don’t see any commotion. I can hear others typing and holding conversations, even as the strange sounds continue.
Then I make out words. It’s not moaning that I’m hearing, but singing … sort of.
The words cut in and out, they get louder, then softer, then louder again. I’m pretty sure it’s a man’s voice. Then—oh my, he’s singing something about a woman, and something about all night, something about going hard. The only song I recall people singing at my last job was “Happy Birthday,” and this is definitely not that!
I go over to Jackie’s cubicle to see if she’s hearing what I’m hearing, but she’s on the phone with her back toward me.
Down the aisle, Owen is heading in my direction. When I catch his eye, he makes an amused wide-eyed face and shakes his head.
Meeting him halfway, I whisper, “Who is that?”
“It’s Rob, the retail manager. He gets a little caught up in his music sometimes.”
I stand on tiptoes and look over the wall to see the man, who’s in his late forties or early fifties, wearing earbuds and typing away, lost in a world of his own.
“I’m gonna do ya down and dirty all night, you nasty girl…”
My eyes bulge out as I hold back laughter. “Is this a regular thing? I’m going to ask him to stop.”
“I wouldn’t bother,” Owen says. “He doesn’t go for long. I don’t think he’s even aware he’s singing.”
“Does he do this often?”
“I usually hear him once or twice a week.”
The singing stops for a long moment, but just when I assume he’s finished, he starts again. My jaw drops. Now he’s singing “Baby Shark,” complete with its upbeat chorus of repetitive sounds.