Well. For everything.
Dustin Makes Healthed-Up Hot Chicken, but Don’t Call It Nashville-Style
The girl who appears at 18:20. A fucking dream.
How do I get Analyst Casey in my subscription queue?
Y’all think she’s dating one of them?
Where has the video team been hiding that girl!
OMG! Casey! We went to elementary school together <3
I’d watch a vlog of her just crunching numbers
You can analyze me, babe
When you’ve got a date with a pro chef at ten and a rendezvous with the CFO at eleven
CHAPTER FOUR
Besides Brijesh and Miriam, my only other friend in New York is Sasha Nicholson. Sasha is five eleven—making her a whopping six inches taller than me—with balmy deep-brown skin that belongs in a CoverGirl commercial, Met Gala–ready Afro-teased hair, and a truly comedic number of four-inch stilettos in her closet that should be organized on an episode of The Home Edit. The shoe addiction comes from her mom, but her height comes from her dad: NBA Hall of Famer Devon Nicholson.
（I’m embarrassed to admit this, but even after four years of living with Sasha in college, plus a handful of times watching her play for the women’s team on campus, I still know less about basketball than a thespian.）
At the University of Tennessee, Sasha and I got randomly assigned as roommates in the honors dorm our first year. We liked each other enough to get an off-campus apartment together after that, but between her basketball obligations, myriad out-of-town boyfriends, and a tight-knit family based out of Chicago, I can count on two hands the number of weekends she was around during college. Even now that we both live in New York, I still wouldn’t call us close. I’d call us comfortable.
Comfortable enough that when she calls in a favor, I’m obligated to say yes. Today’s favor includes being Sasha’s plus-one to her work function: a Yankees season-closing happy hour on a rooftop bar in Chelsea.
（I also know less about baseball than a thespian, but maybe I’m underselling the sports knowledge of thespians.）
The venue is gorgeous, with golden-hour evening sunlight and a warm, September wind streaming through the open doors between a balcony facing the river and the U-shaped bar inside. I’m holding a frosty pisco sour and headed back to where I last saw Sasha when I realize she’s standing with Dougie Dawson.
My CEO.
The man’s hair is thin and graying, his face dimpled in a purplish hue from years of sun damage. Sasha is standing farther away from him than she’d likely stand from anyone else solely because of the size of Dougie’s protruding belly. I’ve never seen him up close like this, only in passing on days he makes it into his office. Which is not all that often.
But I remember in perfect detail the day he took over. The whole Finance department got pulled into the boardroom, and Dougie gave a spiel about how thankful he was to be working with such a dedicated team and how expansive his vision was for LC’s future. To me, he’d looked exactly like our old CEO. Read: thrilled with his own existence.
Half of Sasha’s job description is schmoozing rich people, so I take an educated guess and decide Dougie must be a Yankees season ticket holder with a luxury suite.
I approach the two of them, not sure what to do, how to act. Should I introduce myself? Should I pretend there’s no connection? Should I point out the sunspot on his neck in case he’d like to run it by his dermatologist?
“Casey!” Sasha says, her voice chipper and totally fake. “Did you know Dougie is the CEO of Little Cooper? What great exposure for you!”
Sasha is, unfortunately, the type of person who thinks about things like good exposure. I’m starting to think there’s more than one reason she invited me here tonight.
I smile anyway. “Hi, Mr. Dawson. I work in Little Cooper’s Finance department.”
Dougie appraises me and scoffs. “You can’t be older than twenty-five.” His voice is deep and grandfatherly. It feels like I’m getting scolded for inappropriate conduct at the youth group ice cream social.
“I’m twenty-four.”
“When I was your age,” he says as his flattened palm taps me lightly against my hip bone, “I had hair down to here—”
My brain short-circuits. Sasha and I lock eyes for a fraction of a second.
“And a mustache down to here.” His hand moves to my chest, where he taps my clavicle with the length of his pinkie, just above my breasts. “I was failing business school. A serious career was the last thing on my mind.”
Double or nothing, I suppose. If you’re going to touch a woman in the Me Too era, you might as well make it worth the headline?
The funny part is that my gut reaction is to come up with something to say next that won’t make him uncomfortable. What would I do otherwise? Cause a scene? Claim harassment by a man who likely helped pay for the open bar I’m drinking at because he tapped my hip and clavicle? I hate myself a little for the passivity of it, but in professional situations like this, with my literal livelihood at stake, I revert to a scared little girl who has internalized that under no circumstances should she ruffle affluent society’s feathers.
Don’t bite the hand that feeds you.
The irony isn’t lost on me. It’s not lost on BTH, either. Their slogan? Bite the hand, feed yourself. It’s just … harder than our feisty editorial team makes it look.
Beside me, Sasha swirls the melting ice in her glass and saves me from having to reply. “So, Dougie. You’re close with the Yankees marketing VP, right? Do you know if he’s considering new advertisers for next season? I have some suggestions—”
“They don’t need new advertisers, dear,” Dougie interrupts. “The old-school sponsorships are where the Yankees bankroll.”
Sasha nods silently and twists her cocktail glass between her fingertips, her lips pressed together, which is how I know she’s trying not to say something. Probably that she thinks the sports industry’s sponsorship structure is from the dinosaur age.
“Now.” Dougie turns back to me. “What exactly do you do for the Finance department?”
“She works with me.”
I whip around, hair tickling my bare shoulders as the voice that’s been haunting me for weeks envelops all three of us like a cloak.
It’s him. Alex Harrison.
His eyes lock with mine. As usual, looking into the light brown color of his irises is like diving headfirst into a vat of quicksand that plans to choke me to death. Also as usual, I can’t read the expression on his face. He is frustratingly unreadable.
“Alex.” Dougie straightens, but his effort to gain height over Alex is fruitless. Dougie is only an inch taller than me, while Alex, by contrast, is about as tall as Sasha.
Alex clears his throat. “Dougie. It’s good to see you.” But the roll in his jaw, the pinch between his brows says otherwise.
“Since Choate graduation, right?”
“Right,” Alex confirms.
What the heck is Choate? Sounds like a fancy private school in, like, the middle of Connecticut.
Something unpleasant settles onto Dougie’s features. “Did I hear correctly? You’re working for Little Cooper?”
“Yes. I’m the project manager for Bite the Hand.”