The Summer I Saved You (The Summer #2)(9)
Feigning calm with blood rushing to my face, I kneel on the ground and start picking up the gift cards while Sophie opens a bag of chips I hadn’t planned to buy.
“Ma’am, your children can’t block the aisle,” says an employee. “And you’re going to have to pay for the chips.”
My mother wouldn’t take this shit. She’d look him dead in the eye as she dropped all the gift cards she’d gathered to the floor. She’d take that bag of chips Sophie’s opened, dump them out and say, “Oops, looks like you’ve got some cleaning to do.”
I died a million deaths as a kid watching her tell people off, but right now…I get it. Guys like this want someone they can squash easily, someone too weak to fight back, and I very much would like to show him he chose the wrong girl.
After a lifetime of trying to be different from my mother, am I about to become just like her the minute I face some adversity?
“Come on, guys,” I say, setting the gift cards on the shelf beside me and heading toward the checkout though we only made it through half the store.
The cashier rings us up while Sophie attempts to sound out the caption on a tabloid. I regret teaching her phonics. “In...cuh. In…cuh…sss. Mommy, what’s that word?”
The caption reads Incest! Shocking Details About America’s Favorite TV Dad!
“Ma’am, your credit card was declined,” says the cashier.
I blink. It’s got to be a mistake, but there’s a line of irritated shoppers behind me and it’s faster to use another card than argue.
The second card doesn’t work either, though, and a slow, certain dread begins to spin in my stomach. “I’ll just use my debit card.”
I insert it with heat climbing up my neck while the guy behind me starts groaning in frustration at how long I’m taking.
“It says you have insufficient funds,” she announces.
The three grand is gone. Somehow, Jeremy managed to empty a checking account he wasn’t even on, which means we have almost nothing—a tiny bit of cash back at the house and not a penny more until I get my first paycheck.
The only surprising thing about this entire situation is my failure to anticipate it.
My mother…she’d have anticipated it.
6
CALEB
Lucie enters the conference room Friday morning in a sleeveless, fitted green silk dress, red lips, her dark hair slicked back in a high ponytail.
She doesn’t look like a woman going through a divorce with two little kids to support. She looks like the colleague Hunter’s about to make a fool of himself over, based on his wide smile and the way he jumps to his feet the second she struggles with the smart board—she should be able to figure it out on her own at this point.
“Not your fault,” he insists. “This is a garbage laptop. We need to get you a new one.”
If he keeps flirting with the new hire, I’m going to give her his laptop.
“Can we get started?” I ask, my fingers tapping impatiently on the table. “I have places to be.”
She and Hunter exchange a quick glance.
He’s such a dick, Lucie’s gaze says.
I’d never treat you like that, Lucie, his replies.
She starts to review the prizes, and Hunter is watching her, no doubt memorizing every flick of her hand, every smile and sigh—in the rare moments when he’s not staring at her rack, that is.
“I’m so impressed,” he says. “The prizes and the—”
“Show us how you’ll track it,” I snap. If Hunter wants to suck up to her, he can do it on his own time. Better yet, he can do it from someone else’s company.
Her gaze jerks to mine and it’s a visceral thrill, that spark of irritation in her eyes—as if she’s just marched across the room and grabbed me by the lapels. I have a sudden, sharp memory of her climbing up the ladder last weekend. I’d be better off if I could forget.
“We’ve created a software program,” she says, her jaw grinding as she progresses to the next slide. “It allows employees to connect their devices and shows their progress in a couple of ways—a graph charting what they’ve done and one showing where their team stands compared to others.”
The software looks like something Apple spent years developing. Something I know she herself didn’t create…she can barely figure out how to connect to the Wi-Fi.
“Who authorized you to use a programmer for this?” I demand, though I already know exactly who did it. Harvard MBA, my ass. “We’re already short-staffed. I can’t have someone wasting hours on this shit.”
Mark and Debbie are both staring at me when it’s Hunter they should be appalled by. I’m not the one blatantly hitting on a low-level employee. I have the right to know what the actual costs of this are.
“I didn’t use one of your programmers,” she says between her teeth. “I had a friend help me.”
A friend did all this for her? Was he treated to a little Lucie-swimming-in-a-tank-top show before he agreed? My eyes catch on the green of her dress, on her bare legs. Something about her leaves me unable to focus and it’s really becoming a problem. “We’ll let you know,” I say, gathering my things and heading for the door.
I need out of the goddamn room so I can think clearly.