Total pages in book: 120
Estimated words: 111414 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 557(@200wpm)___ 446(@250wpm)___ 371(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 111414 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 557(@200wpm)___ 446(@250wpm)___ 371(@300wpm)
Though people do begin moving, I can hear them talking about what just happened. I can’t stop that, but I focus on straightening up the mess and making sure Barbara is okay. She’s looking a little shocked and appalled at the whole situation. That’s not right. “Hey, Barbara, you okay?”
“Yeah, Mr. Steen. I’m fine.” Her answer seems automatic because a moment later, her eyes clear and she huffs out, “That was insane. What’s wrong with people?”
“Good question,” I say agreeably. Quieter, I mutter, “Some people just suck.”
She seems to be gathering her wits further, and I leave her smiling at another guest as she tells them how much she appreciates their patience and understanding. I guess that’s about the best ending to a shitty situation I could hope for.
CHAPTER 2
JAYME
One more steadying breath. It’s all I’ll allow myself before I get out of the car and go inside. After spending all night prepping, I can’t be any readier for this meeting. At least concerning information, statistics, and strategy suggestions. But there’s a level of nuance to walking into someone else’s lion den and taming their shitshow, especially when I’m the surprise guest of honor. Those are the skills I need one last moment to hone until they’re razor-sharp.
In . . . two, three, four. Out . . . two, three, four. All right, Jayme. You’ve got this.
I nod to myself in answer and get out of my Lexus sedan, chosen for equal parts luxury and practicality. I grab my portfolio briefcase, the buttery soft red leather cool in my hand, and smooth my knee-length pencil skirt down my thigh with the other hand. My heels click across the lot for a few steps before being drowned out by screams of delight and a mechanical roar. I glance past the multi-story building I’m approaching to see the sweeping loops of a red, white, and blue roller coaster filled with smiling faces.
The scene would be picture perfect if social media wasn’t exploding with vitriol over what happened two days ago at Americana Land. Fixing that is why I’m here.
“Hello, can I help you?” the woman at the front desk asks through a polite smile. She looks like she enjoys her job, which is a good sign to me. I’ve seen too many corporate zombies with plastic smiles in my life. People who don’t give a damn about their jobs beyond their paychecks. But if people like this actually like working here, it means there’s hope for me to turn this around.
“Yes, thank you . . .” I glance down to the nameplate on the desk. “Ms. Trochin. My name is Jayme Rice. I’m here to see Mr. Steen.”
“Oh, I see. Uhm . . . which one?” She cocks her head, giving me a subtle appraisal. I’m not put off by it but rather welcome her doing her job as screener for the company.
“Both of them. I have a nine o’clock meeting on their schedule.”
After a quick wait for Ms. Trochin to confirm that I do in fact have an appointment, a man in gray slacks with a silver polka-dotted bowtie emerges from the elevator and comes over. “Ms. Rice? I’m Boston, Mr. Steen’s assistant.”
“A pleasure, Boston,” I reply, noting he doesn’t offer a last name, nor which Steen he works for.
He offers a firm handshake and then holds out a hand gesturing back the direction he came. “If you’ll come with me. Ben and Carson are . . . ahem, waiting on you.”
I adjust mentally even as my feet continue following Boston into the elevator. I thought I’d meet with Ben first, considering I usually don’t get shot out of a cannon into the blood and guts meetings. Normally, there’s a period of handshaking, sipping coffee, and judging the room. Apparently, not this time. “Wasn’t our meeting for nine?”
Boston smiles politely, but there’s a glint of laughter in his eyes. “Yes, yes. Of course.” He doesn’t offer anything further, and before I can question him, the short ride up is over. He leads me down a hallway and into a private office. Two sharp knocks on the inner door as a warning, then Boston opens the door. “Mr. Steen, Ms. Rice is here.”
I walk into the office, my eyes quietly evaluating everything that I see. Too often, it’s the unspoken details that are the clue to any situation, a lesson I learned long, long ago as a little girl. My eyes eventually lock on the older man behind the desk, Ben Steen, from my research. His hair is a blend of salt and pepper shades that are echoed in his trimmed mustache and beard, which surround a deep frown. His tie is a classic red showcase of power, especially paired with his pale blue shirt. It’s a very on-brand look for an Americana Land CEO.