And—I swear to God. At first, I think I might be sharing the elevator with a straight-up male model.
LC owns a fashion magazine called Frame, so it’s not like my thought is outlandish. He’s styled impeccably in a lavish but traditional black suit that I know without a doubt has been tailored, the jacket slung over his left shoulder and held in place by a couple of loose fingers. A white button-down covers his broad chest.
The man is Asian, maybe biracial, with the calm, bored quality of a person who spends plenty of time waiting. The way he’s leaning against the opposite side of the elevator looks so aesthetic, it’s almost like he’s unintentionally posing. One loafer sole is pushed flush against the stainless-steel wall, and there’s a slight bend in his knee. I’m halfway expecting a camera to start snapping him ad nauseam as soon as the doors pull open on the next floor.
My next discernment is that he’s unabashedly watching me right back.
He’s around my age, maybe a year or two older, but definitely in the midtwenties bracket, a few years past the cusp of when the word “man” has permanently overwritten “boy” in your head. He has a couple of tiny lines by his eyes, a tiredness to the set of his mouth that’s probably correlated to an absence of work-life balance. But regardless, he’s so handsome, it sort of hurts my feelings, with jet-black hair; a straight nose; tawny, freshly shaved skin; and expressive lips that are, at present, pressed together like he’s holding back a secret he doesn’t want to share. I would describe him as tilt-your-head tall, but not crane-your-neck tall.
So, basically, perfect.
The hand in his pocket is tapping out a rhythm. It’s strangely in sync with my restless foot.
I catalog all this with a few careful glances, my eyes moving skittishly over the stranger. With a peek at the solely lit elevator button, I realize we’re headed for the same stop. I’m certain I’ve never seen this person before, which is rare this high up the beanstalk. Outsiders don’t frequent my floor. It’s really not for the faint of heart, considering business executives—much like volcanoes—tend to erupt spontaneously.
He’s … still watching me. Staring, honestly. It’s unnerving. At least I’m trying to be subtle about it. He’s not even bothering!
And then—
AND. THEN.
He whispers, in a conspiratorial hiss, “I. Killed. Mufasa.”
My jaw drops open, the sticky remnants of my Listerine strip no doubt visibly blue on my tongue. I drop all pretense of subtlety and stare at him, utterly dumbfounded.
Did he just quote Scar from The Lion King?
His smile—a gentle, attractive pull of his lips at one corner—dissolves into messy laughter at my expression. He doubles over, clutching his stomach, and a deep, musical sound escapes him like it cannot possibly be contained a moment longer.
I still haven’t located my vocal cords.
The elevator pulls to a gradual stop on the ninety-eighth floor, and he pushes off the wall and grins with abandon. “I read that on a Bite the Hand list of weird things you can say to strangers in the elevator,” he explains.
Somehow, a quick reply jumps out of me. “On a scale of one to ten, how weird was that line compared to the rest of the list?”
“Five,” he says, not missing a beat. His voice is scratchy. I wonder if I’m his first occasion to speak today.
“You spared me levels six through ten?” I ask.
“I wanted you to smile, not call security.”
It works, just as the doors open. My mouth gives in, pulling up into a smile at the absurdity of this man.
“There it is,” he murmurs. “You looked like you needed it.”
He throws me one last grin—like I made his whole damn year—as he strolls into the Little Cooper Publications executive suite.
CHAPTER TWO
Eight minutes later, Molly breaks my heart.
We’re in a bland, forgettable conference room I’ve occupied hundreds of times before when all my frenetic nerves, all that anxious energy, leaks out of me like big corporate oil into the gulf. I have now murdered an ocean with my sadness.
“You were a strong candidate, Casey,” Molly says, voice gentle. “But ultimately, Bite the Hand went with someone who has more entrepreneurial experience.”
They went with someone else.
Which really means, You’re not good enough, Casey.
“As you know, BTH is kind of like a digital media start-up,” Molly says. “And … well, they found someone with that exact job history.”
My face flushes with mortification, sadness giving way to raging embarrassment in the span of a second. I feel hollow, but I force myself not to break eye contact with Molly as she continues to metaphorically stab me.
“Technically, it’s not even the same role you interviewed for,” she explains, trying so obviously to soften the blow. “The BTH team changed the job description to match the strengths of their new hire, who has a huge vision for the brand and plans to take a broader approach than we originally considered possible for this position.”
“What vision?” I ask, doing my best to disguise any resentment. “What approach?”
Her voice turns admiring, her eyes glassy, and that’s when I know Molly’s met the new hire herself. Already fallen under their visionary spell. “Bite the Hand is going to become its own subsidiary company. An independent website for social news, targeting a younger customer than our magazine audience. The new hire will be a project manager helping make that happen.”
What Molly’s telling me is that they loved this person so damn much, they created a better job just for them.
I nod, my focus dropping to the table between us in a signal of acquiescence.
This makes sense, my mind supplies for me. In a self-admitted coping mechanism, I start to rationalize all the reasons this is the only logical conclusion.
I’m too young for a new job already. It’s been only two years since I graduated from UT.
I’m too analytical for a project role.
Not enough of a visionary.
It’s not like I was seriously thinking I’d get that job, right? The description was pretty far outside my wheelhouse, I’ll admit. Growth strategy, social media networking, freelance client management. Honestly, I’m better suited to reconciling expense line items.
Applying was interview practice. A what-if question that never merited a real answer. Considering it anything else would be ridiculous.
I should’ve stayed in my lane. Finance is my lane. And the stupid part is, I love finance. Why did I betray finance?!
Actually. I know exactly why.
I was trying to make a dead woman proud of me.
“But I have some good news, too,” Molly goes on.
I look up from where my eyes were burning holes in the table.
“Right now, Bite the Hand is still technically a magazine vertical. It doesn’t have an independent domain or revenue stream.”
Come on, Molly. I already know all this. I’m the one who prepares the financial statements.
“Right,” I say. “Their revenue and expenses hit Frame’s bottom line.”
“For now,” Molly counters. “The BTH team wants to convince the board to vote in favor of launching a subsidiary, but to hit their timeline, they’ll need hard-core financial planning.”