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My fingers tighten on the box. It’s Sasha. “Kenya.” Sasha jogs toward me.
worried about her overexerting herself and, in the next, I wish she’d trip over a rock and crack her skull open. Running away isn’t going to work this time. Fine. We’ll talk.
“Kenya.” Her voice is subdued. “You’re here.” Yes, I’m here. But she obviously knew that already.
“What do you want?” I ask coldly. Sasha’s bulging eyes remind me of when we were younger, and she’d run to me after doing something wrong. “Kenny! Kenny! I need your help.”
Because she’s my little sister. One of my people. Under my protection. I go to bat for anyone I consider mine. It’s sad that she didn’t consider me at all. “Please,” she steps forward, “can we talk?”
“You must hate me right now,” Sasha says. I don’t correct her. We step over the little cement bridge that leads into the park. Bubble-gum pink benches. Sprawling basketball court. Charming hopscotch sidewalks.
“Kenya, I know what I did was awful, but Drake and I love each other.” My heart shudders.
“I want to explain,” Sasha says. “I want to—” “Don’t bother.” My jaw is set. I don’t look at her. “But I can’t let our relationship fall apart like this.”
“I thought I was ready for this conversation, but I’m not.” “Kenya,” Sasha digs her fingers into her purse and stares at her lap, “please hear me out.” “If you need a listening ear, call your mother.” Sasha hops to her feet. “Kenya, I can’t lose you.”
“You hurt me, Sasha.” She sobs. “I know.” “But mixed inside that hurt is genuine worry for you.” I nod to Drake’s apartment that’s still visible through the tree line. “I don’t want that punk to hurt you the way he hurt me.”
“He won’t,” she mumbles, tears bubbling in her eyes.
“I need you, Kenya,” Sasha whispers. “And I need time.”
“I love you, Kenya,” Sasha says to my back.
If this is what love is—if this pain and betrayal is what it has in store for me—then I want no part in it.
“Excuse me?” “She fetched my coffee without a retort.” “And?” “Without a word, Ezekiel.” “Wouldn’t you call that… progress, sir?” “Progress?” “Miss Jones is acclimating to her position as your second assistant. Why are we discussing the matter like it’s a problem?” “You’re right.” I shake my head. “Forget I said anything.” Ezekiel gives me a long look. “Anything else, sir?”
Perhaps I’m overthinking it, but I’m quite certain her temperament was off today. She didn’t snap at me. Didn’t glare. Didn’t scowl.
Alistair, you have a visitor.” “No need to announce me so vaguely, Ezekiel.” Darrel’s voice barrels through the door that’s open a crack. “He’ll see me whether he’s busy or not.” I sigh heavily as my brother-in-law appears. “You made good on your threat.” “Only because you were rude enough to not return my calls.”
“You can’t keep avoiding your sessions.” “If I knew you’d harass me for years to come, I wouldn’t have agreed to see you in the first place.” “Free therapy is one of the many benefits of joining our family.” “Is it a benefit?” I run a hand down my face. “It feels more like a prison sentence.”
“You chased him off so quickly?” I scowl. “Tell Miss Jones I need to see her.” “Alright.” He turns around. “Leave the coffee.” “Both of them?” “Yes.”
She drinks again and moans. The sound of her low groan immediately fills my head with dirty images. Miss Jones in my bed. Her curls spilling over my white pillowcases. Her heels pressing into the back of my neck as I— No. That wildly inappropriate fantasy is unacceptable.
Miss Jones stops at the door. Suddenly, she whirls around and snatches the coffee off the desk. “I’ll take this.” I will not laugh. Dammit. She won’t make me laugh.
My eyes follow her. The dress she’s wearing today is more her style. It’s bright red and hugs her body a little too tightly for the office. The jacket is the only thing keeping her outfit appropriate. Damn. Her curves are a distraction.
I so badly want to find out if she’s as soft as she looks. Her head swivels to me and she catches me staring. Her face gives her thoughts away, revealing amusement and confusion all in one eyebrow quirk.
“Belle’s beauty was founded by a woman who believed in family over everything.” The world turns blurry. My eyes widen and I whip my head around. She’s not going there. Hell no. She’s not talking about Claire.
“What if we included her story in the promo material? What if we, at Belle’s Beauty, opened our hearts just like all the beautiful, deserving mothers open those boxes?” I grit my teeth so hard I hear something crack.
“We can print the Belle’s Beauty origin story on the flap. Not only will it boost awareness of the people behind the company, but it’ll also touch the hearts of all the Baby Box customers. Bring the company from a nameless corporation to a...
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“Didn’t you and Claire have a daughter, Alistair?” My heart sl...
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“Daughter?” Kenya whispers, her eyes widening. She slants me a look of surprise.
“My daughter,” I growl, “is not a commercial. Her details are not public knowledge and that is by choice. I don’t want anything about her broadcasted.” Sutherburg jabs his finger at me. “Are you sure about that?”
“Dead sure,”
“I see.” He and his PR team gather their things and rise, slowly marching toward the door without further comment. “We don’t have to use real pictures,” Kenya blurts. I slant her a blistering look. Shut up.
“We can hire a model. Someone who’ll be the face of the collaboration. But we can still use real stories. Not only about Belle’s Beauty’s origin but about the many brave mothers who slowly learned to choose themselves again after a kid consumed their world. It’ll be more unique. Every box will have a picture of the same model, but with a different story. We can run a contest. Drive more awareness to the campaign that way. We can even invite people to vote on the stories they’d like to see featured. The winner could get a year’s worth of supplies.”
“We’ll discuss this back at the office. For now, get back to Belle’s Beauty and continue
with your work.” My eyes fall on the PR team leader. “I’ll need an explanation for this.”
“Yes, sir.” His voice...
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Kenya plugs out my laptop and slips it into the bag. She moves with slow, lethargic movements. Her eyes are on the ground. Her steps are dragging. Is she upset because Sutherburg didn’t jump on her proposal or does she know what she’s in for? She moves toward the door.
“Miss Jones, I need to speak to you.” She does a sharp turn and returns to the table. “Sit down.”
“Mr. Alistair, I—” I flatten my fists against the table and hiss, “What the hell is wrong with you?”
“What happened in this room is unacceptable.” His fingers grip the back of the chair like he’s contemplating whether he should pick it up and throw it at the window. “You’re an assistant to the damn assistant!” I flinch. Nice reminder. “You forget what you’re here for.”
“You’re not a part of the PR team. You’re not in charge of this pitch. And you have no authority to speak out without my permission.”
“Do I need your permission to breathe too?” “Miss Jones!...
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“I may have spoken out of turn, but I was trying to save the pitch. You saw Sutherburg yawning.”
“The PR team had a plan—” “The PR Team was pandering to your obsession with data and your total disinterest in the human element. You knew that. I warned you there wasn’t enough of a relatable draw in the pitch and you shot me down saying the numbers would speak for themselves.” “I’m impressed, Miss Jones.”
“After the crap you pulled, you have the guts to call me out? Fan-freaking-tastic!”
“Whether you acknowledge it or not, I was trying to help!” “You didn’t, Miss Jones. Not even a little.” “I—”
“Do you have any idea how inappropriate it was for you to speak today? I do not pay you to shout your opinions to my clients. I do not pay you to critique my business choices. I pay you to organize files, write notes and fetch my damn coffee!”
“Excuse me?” “Don’t play offended, Miss Jones. You were brave enough to mouth off in the middle of a meeting and you were brave enough to scold me for ignoring your notes, so you should be brave enough to stand here and take this.” “I threw myself on a grenade that you set off.”
“Sutherburg would
have walked out long ago and it would have ruined any future collab ...
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“You still don’t get what you did wrong, do you?” “I did what I did to help the company and save the pitch. You refuse to see it. Fine. I d...
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