“Thanks again,” I say, sufficiently recovered from my emergency to become aware of the fact that Jack and I are alone. Very aware. And also a little nervous. “So, um, good meeting this morning.”
“Yeah,” he says, lips curving on one side. “You’re killing it, El. Are you sure you don’t want to come work for us for real? Give up the glamorous life of a work-at-home journalist and help us make even more ridiculous amounts of money?”
“Ha! Um, no…” I smile too wide but figure it’s acceptable to let my guard down now that we’re alone. “But I’m flattered. And glad I haven’t let you down.”
“No, you haven’t,” he says, sobering. “But what about things on your end? How’s the broker workload meshing with your article sleuthing?”
“Fine. Though I’d like access to Blair’s records if possible. My sixth sense is tingling… She tried to pawn off her workload on me this morning.” I give a small shake of my head. “She said she wants my outsider’s perspective on potential candidates, but something about it felt like a set-up. Or at least a test.”
“Yeah, she doesn’t usually ask brokers for hiring input.” Jack runs a hand through his wavy hair, and I can’t help but flash back to the park yesterday. His lips on mine. My fingers sliding into those silky locks…
“Blair’s a good manager, though,” he insists, pulling me out of my reverie.
“If you think so.” I swallow the urge to tell him about spotting Blair in Ryan’s office. For all I know, she has every right to be in there, and I don’t want to sound like a petty underling with a grudge.
“My guess is she’s miffed about me fast-tracking your hire and is looking for a fight,” Jack says.
“Let’s hope she doesn’t look too hard. My credentials are a joke, Jack.”
“Not true.” He gives me a conspiratorial wink. “I’ve made the necessary adjustments to your personnel file. On paper, you’re legit.”
“Still. I’d rather fly below the radar with Blair.”
Jack offers a sympathetic smile. “Her focus on you will fade soon enough—she’s got a lot of other priorities. But if you can gain her trust, she’d be a good resource.”
“I have plenty of resources,” I say.
“You may have made some friends, but no one knows the inner workings of S and H like Blair. It’s why she has a corner office and six weeks’ paid vacation. Woman knows her stuff.”
I cock an eyebrow. “Does she know she’s making less than her male counterpart on the west coast…who’s dealing with a significantly smaller staff and has less experience and education?”
Jack leans back against his desk, folding his arms across his muscled chest. “Do I even want to know how you came by that information?”
“Probably not. But if I’m going to prove this is a widespread issue, I need more than hearsay. I really would like to peruse her files, to see who’s applied for various positions and who’s been granted interviews—not just management, but all levels.”
“What are you hoping to find?”
“Just following up on a hunch, looking to connect a few dots. I’m not going to publish confidential information—nothing that links back to individual employees. You could even strip out names—I’m only interested in gender. And I don’t need discipline records or worker’s comp claims or anything like that. Do you think you could make those files available to me? I’d rather not have to suck up to Blair, if I don’t absolutely have to.”
He nods as he stands, moving away from his desk. “All right. I’ll need to run a script to pull out personal identifiers, but I can get you what you need.” He glances at his watch and lets out a sigh. “But I won’t have time until after closing bell. Can you stay late?”
“Sure.” I follow him to the door and head back to my desk, trying not to feel disappointed that things are so…normal between us.
What were you expecting, El? A red-hot make-out session after the morning meeting?
No. Normal is good. Now I don’t have to worry about one silly kiss messing up our friendship or Jack’s relationship with my brother.
Everything is great. I’m carrying my weight as Eric, getting good material as Ellie, clicking with most of my team, and I even manage to grab a sandwich from the break room before they’re all gone. It’s pimento cheese, however, so I opt for a crust-nibble and toss the rest in the trash.
Unless it comes in a bag and goes crunch, cheese was never meant to bethatprocessed or pimento-ed.
I have strong opinions about treating cheese with the dignity it deserves, and therefore I am starving by the time five o’clock rolls around. By six, my stomach is pitching a fit, but Jack’s office door is closed and there are serious hard-at-work murmurings from behind it, so I cruise back into the break room. But the organic snack machine does not care for my credit card—it probably heard I eat Cheetos and is being judgmental—and without my purse I have nowhere to scrounge for change.
“Oh, cruel world,” I mutter, sagging back against the wall.
I’m being dramatic, of course, but by seven o’clock, the hunger pains aren’t funny. Neither is the lightheadedness or the cramping in my hollow stomach. Finally, I’m forced to knock on Jack’s door.
He answers with his phone to his ear and holds up one finger.