“How do I do that? He’s the boss.”
I wonder if she might tell me what happened to her here. My thoughts flicker back to when Renée started as an accounting intern at FII. She seemed to be doing great, one of Nashville Magazine’s “Thirty under Thirty” rising stars in local business.
She passed the CPA exam on her first try… Then a year later, she dropped off the grid.
She stopped answering her phone, and when I called the office, a woman said she didn’t work here anymore. I had to leave campus in the middle of exams, catch a city bus across town to her low-rent apartment in East Nashville, where it looked like she hadn’t left her bed for days.
She wouldn’t tell me what happened—she only said she wasn’t doing it anymore. “It” meant anything having to do with her accounting degree.
That spring break, I ditched my plans to spend the week in South Walton to help her move back to Savannah, to our parents’ tiny home near the watchful eye of Ms. Hazel Wakefield, their old neighbor.
Now she helps run Ms. Hazel’s gift shop on Tybee Island and pays for rent by cleaning the old woman’s house, running her errands, and cooking their meals. She doesn’t have much choice since she walked away from her career with nothing but a crushing load of student loan debt.
“You want my advice on Patton Fletcher?” She huffs a laugh like it will take all day. “Don’t mention his dad. It pisses him off.”
My brow furrows. “Got it. Anything else?” I’m on the elevator rising too fast. Or she’s talking too slowly.
“Never wear all black. He hates that.”
“Shit.” I glance down at my black slacks and matching black blazer. “I’ll have to buy a scarf at lunch.”
“Nope, he hates scarves even more.”
“What’s his problem?” My lips tighten, and my urge to fight starts to rise.
It’s how I got my nickname, Rocky. My dad started it because even as a little girl, I never backed down from a bully.
“Remember when we were kids, and you liked to say ‘You’re not the boss of me’?”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t ever say that to Patton Fletcher.” I’m about to speak, when she adds conspiratorially. “But never stop saying it in your head. I think he secretly likes it.”
“He sounds evil.”
“Well…” Her voice goes higher. “Patton Fletcher is a devil. He’s not the devil, but he’s definitely one of them.”
“I’m not afraid of the devil.” I have no intention of letting some arrogant young CEO scare me away from my dreams—if that’s what he did to Renée.
The elevator stops with a ding, and I wonder if that’s the reason I said yes to this particular job offer, to prove the Morgan girls have grit, to prove we’re tougher than we look.
“Whatever you do, don’t fall for him.” Her tone turns serious, and it almost makes me laugh.
“I have no intention of falling for him.”
“I checked your star sign this morning. It’s a good day for you to start something new.”
I’m in the door, and not a moment too soon. When she starts on the holistic remedies and astral predictions, I’m done. “Thanks, sis. Gotta run. Love you!”
“Love you, too. Protect your chin.”
“I will.” It’s our usual sign-off, a boxing reference.
I end the call as a slim young man in a pale blue, button-down and salmon-pink dockers behind the reception desk lowers his phone and gives me a bright smile.
“Welcome to Fletcher International, can I help you?”
“Hi, I’m Rock—ah, Raquel Morgan. I’m supposed to check in with Sandra—”