Shipped(87)

With every click, Marlen’s expression grows darker, more thunderous. Finally, with a heavy sigh, he shoves to his feet and strides to the massive bank of windows that make up an entire wall of his office.

“James has worked for this company for nearly two decades,” he says, clasping his hands behind his back. “He started under the previous owner as the print marketing director. I promoted him to chief marketing officer eight years ago because his ideas were on point and cutting-edge, and he seemed to be taking the company’s marketing program in the right direction. I had no idea he was stepping on other people’s backs to do it.” Dipping his chin, he shakes his head slowly and returns to his desk.

Picking up the framed photo of his daughter, he runs his thumb over the glass. When he sets it down, he splays his palms on the desk and looks me dead in the eye.

“I know exactly how to handle this.”





30




Are you nervous?” asks Walsh nearly an hour later. She’s wearing a pair of neon-green flip-flops she’s procured from God knows where.

I snap my laptop shut and rub my temples. “Ask me after.”

“We got your back,” she says.

I bump her with my shoulder. “I know you do.”

Even with Tory and Christina roped into other meetings (it is a Wednesday and the workday chugs on, despite my drama), the usually empty lobby feels congested with Graeme, Walsh, and me filling the small seating area next to the conference room. Sadie, the front desk receptionist, frowns. She’s probably used to a bit more peace and quiet.

Two executive board members stride through the lobby toward the largest conference room, and one of them is Renata. Her gray-streaked hair gleams under the lights, her soft yet commanding voice trailing her as she disappears into the conference room. Three more executives follow.

I bounce my heel. A minute later, James enters the lobby. Every muscle in my body tenses and I glare at the squat, self-satisfied snake of a man.

When he catches sight of me, a frown flickers across his face but quickly vanishes. He detours over to us, lip curling. “Henley.” He sniffs, giving me a once-over, gaze lingering on my incongruous shoes. “I thought you were taking a personal day.”

“I am. I’m just giving my sister a tour,” I lie smoothly.

Walsh hops up, a fake smile plastered on her face. “Hi, I’m Walsh. You must be Henley’s boss. I’ve heard so much about you.” She titters. “My, that’s an interesting tie. My grandpa has one just like it.”

I suppress a savage bark of laughter. Walsh is the queen of insulting people without them quite catching on that they were insulted.

His gaze flicks to Graeme and he pulls a double-take. “Graeme, is that you?”

Graeme surveys him coolly.

“Graeme Crawford-Collins, you didn’t tell me you were in town.” He extends his hand and Graeme takes it, jaw as hard as marble. His knuckles turn white and James twists his much smaller hand out of Graeme’s grip. He shakes it with a nervous chuckle. “Quite a handshake. Why are you sitting here with Henley?”

“She’s giving me a tour too.”

“Good work, Henley. That’s the kind of attitude I like to see.” He swivels to address Graeme again. “Are you around tomorrow? If so, have Barbara schedule a meeting. I’d like to discuss the next steps for your promotion—relocation and finding you administrative support. Maybe Henley here can help you out in the meantime. You wouldn’t mind, would you, Henley?”

I use every ounce of restraint not to throw myself at him like a jaguar attacking a mouse. Instead, I force myself to smile. I show all my teeth. “Whatever you say, boss.”

“That’s the spirit,” he says, squeezing my shoulder. My gut churns at the contact and I nearly hurl when his touch lingers several seconds too long. Finally, he slips his hand down my arm. I imagine his fingers leaving a trail of slime like a slug.

He walks into the conference room, smirking.

Graeme stares after him, every muscle tense. “That dirtbag.”

I grunt in agreement.

“Oh, he’s getting his,” says Walsh, folding her arms across her chest.

At two o’clock on the nose, Marlen strides into the lobby, footsteps echoing off marble. He inclines his chin at me as he passes, and I nod in return.

When the door closes behind him, he starts the meeting.

Graeme and I barely speak as we listen, ears straining. Words float in and out like a badly tuned radio. The AC is humming from a vent directly above us and all we can see are indistinct blobs through the conference room’s frosted glass wall. Sadie, the receptionist, pops her bubblegum, and I’m tempted to shush her like a Catholic school nun.

A pair of heels clicks across the foyer. “Sorry, that meeting with the itinerary manager took longer than I expected. How’s it going?” Christina asks.

“The board meeting just started. I think James is about to speak,” I say.

With absolutely no decorum, Christina flops into the chair next to me and presses her ear to the opaque glass wall. All pretext abandoned, Graeme, Walsh, and I follow suit.

James is talking, all right. He’s giving my presentation. Or rather, a dumbed-down rendition of it. He’s limiting himself to the Galápagos Islands, unlike my scaled-up version, and he flubs some of the numbers. And it’s clear from his money-driven talk that he doesn’t get it. Not really. For him, it’s all about sales, when really, it’s about inspiring people, adopting stronger corporate responsibility, and making a difference.