Melt for You (Slow Burn #2)(32)

“Are you all right?” Ruth’s brow creases with a frown as she watches me wince when I cross my legs.

“Yes, sorry,” I say, embarrassed. “I just started working out, and I’m a little sore.”

Ruth beams at me. “Good for you! Regular exercise is the best way to maintain your health!”

Portia, sitting across from us in the small office, makes a small noise in the back of her throat. It’s a muted laugh, dripping with disdain. When Ruth glances at her sharply, I know I’m not the only one who isn’t a Portia fan.

Opening a manila file on her desk, Ruth thumbs through a stack of papers. “I understand you’ve just passed your ten-year anniversary with the firm, Joellen.” She looks up at me for confirmation. When I nervously nod, she goes back to perusing the file. “And in that time you’ve missed . . .”

Her index finger skims the length of one page, stopping at a figure at the bottom. She glances up at me again. “One day.”

“I had uterine fibroid surgery!” I blurt, freshly panicking that I’m being accused of doing something wrong. “I scheduled it for first thing in the morning because I wanted to come in in the afternoon, but my surgeon wouldn’t allow it, so I had . . . to . . .” I look back and forth between Ruth, who has her hand to her throat, and Portia, who has recoiled in disgust. “Um . . . take the rest of the day off.”

Behind her glasses, Ruth’s brown eyes are owl round. “Of course you had to take the day off,” she says, horrified. “Joellen, that’s major surgery! I had fibroids removed in my thirties—you should’ve taken a week off!”

I’m relieved I’m not in trouble, but also confused. Do I have too much accrued sick leave?

Portia interrupts, her voice as dry as bone. “Let’s cut to the chase, shall we?”

When Ruth turns her incredulous gaze to Portia, it’s met with an indifferent stare. “I don’t have all day.”

Ruth takes a little too long to carefully straighten all the papers in my employee file. I imagine she’s biting her tongue so hard she tastes blood. She’s a woman known for her kindness and tact—excellent traits for her position—but Portia can strain even the most saintly nerves.

“The raise you requested last month has been approved,” says Ruth, which is the only thing she manages to get out before I leap from my chair with a whoop of joy.

“Really? That’s fantastic! I can’t believe it!”

Portia covers her mouth with her hand to stifle a monster yawn, but I’m too ecstatic to care. I try to do a little happy dance, but instead of cooperating, my crippled legs collapse beneath me. I land in Ruth’s poor guest chair like a bomb dropped from the sky, horrified to hear a loud crack as the wood frame splits underneath the ugly maroon fabric.

I leap up again and stare at the chair, willing it not to explode into a million pieces, silently begging the universe for a break.

“I think you killed it,” observes Portia, just as the damn thing does a slow-motion sideways death dive to the floor.

The three of us are looking at it lying there flat as roadkill, when Michael pokes his head in the door, smiling brightly. “Sorry to barge in. Did we give her the good news?”

Judging by Ruth’s expression, it’s a breach of protocol for the CEO to show up during an HR meeting with an employee. Either that or she really liked the dead chair.

“We were just getting started with our meeting,” says Ruth primly, to which Michael replies, “So you haven’t told her about the open position yet?”

Portia makes a retching noise, and everyone looks at her in alarm. Her face is turning an interesting shade of purple, and her eyes are rolling around in her head. She’s obviously having a stroke.

“We haven’t even p-posted it yet!” sputters Portia, clawing at her skirt like a madwoman. “Bill can take over the extra work for the time being, or Konrad—”

“Nonsense.” Michael leans against the doorframe and smiles at me. “Joellen, unfortunately Maria won’t be returning to work because—”

Ruth loudly clears her throat. Michael looks at her, startled.

“Oh. Er . . . right.” He begins again, more carefully this time. “Maria is no longer an employee of Maddox Publishing.”

“Um. Okay?” I’m confused why he’d be telling me this, why Portia is having a meltdown, and what Maria has to do with me. We’re both copyeditors. If she’s left the company, a copyeditor position will be open. So what?

“Maria had just been promoted to associate editor. We were going to make the announcement this week.”

My heart stutters. I look at Ruth, who’s smiling gently at me. I look at Portia, who’s wishing murder were legal. I look back at Michael, who’s waiting patiently for me to respond to what is the most fantastic news I’ve received in a decade.

“There’s an associate editor position open?” I peep, wide eyed.

“Would you be interested?”

The only thing I’m more interested in is tearing off all your clothes and tackling you, sir. I manage to sound like a rational human being when I say, “Yes. I would.”

“Obviously the position is at a higher pay grade, Joellen,” says Ruth, “so since you’ve been approved for a raise, if you got the job, you’d get a bump from the starting salary to reflect your raise.”