Count to three. Do not kill your boss.
And do not fall in love with him.
That's a good start, especially when you work for New York's most eligible bachelor with millions in one pocket and half of Manhattan's panties in the other. Not to mention tho...
"Why me? Every time Metsler says, 'Lead, follow, or get out of the way,' I get out of the way."
Joe Bauers, The Idiocracy (2006)
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Sheets of papers rustle through the room as people get up from the table and head out of the conference room. A few brave individuals stay to have a word with Mr. Knox, those with no such courage with Mrs. Ketner, and Amy and I use the moment to collect all the leftovers from the meeting and take them to the kitchen.
"So who's it gonna be today?" I ask.
Amy observes the plate with a few chocolate muffins. "Marketing got those croissants last week and that bold guy from IT pissed me off yesterday. How about Accounting? They're constantly mad at us for the late invoices. We could sweeten our account."
"Accounting it is. Will you take it down there?"
"Sure, just..." She takes a plate out of the cupboard and place one of the heavenly looking muffins there, handing it to me. "For you. Nerve support."
I snort. "If muffins could do that, I would've already died from diabetes," I joke but take the plate with a grateful smile. Amy can be such a charmer.
I put my chocolate piece of nervy-supporting heaven in a fridge for later and head back for the conference room. I barely make it out the kitchen when I'm hit with the familiar vibrating tone calling my name.
I look up, finding him just down the hallway. The narrow path lined with thick glass is suddenly so full of him that I would expect the walls to shatter. I don't know how Mr. Dankworth, the regional director, is able to walk so calmly beside him and his icy aura. And the big as fuck ego.
"My office," Mr. Knox slides my way as he passes me without slowing the pace, immersed in his own conversation.
I quickly collect all the papers and my beloved wombat mug in the conference room and hurry back to the hellhole of my office. Just as I place the mug on my table, my name echoes again from the door opened behind me.
I would so like to seal this voice in a box and burry it deep in the ground as a message for the next generations to let them know how miserable times were on the Earth.
"Miss Hart," he raises his voice impatiently.
Fuck it. I simply throw everything on the desk, find my notebook and some pen under the cluttered pile of papers and am standing in the middle of his office in no time.
Mr. Knox doesn't seem to share the in no time part. He looks annoyed, which he makes clear with a single glance towards me from behind his table.
Maybe I'll burry him in the box. The message would be loud and clear.
I purse my lips to keep my sour expression from escaping.
