“Exactly.” He opens his door as the driver puts the car in park in front of headquarters. “Get over yourself.”
I wait a few seconds before stepping out into the snow. I take my time walking inside so I won’t have to talk with Seth again until lunch.
I take the elevator up to my floor and see a delivery man looking around for the receptionist. He seems beyond lost, and he’s holding flowers that look like they have one more day of life in them at best.
“What’s this for?”
“A delivery, sir.” He extends them to me. “They’re for a Savannah Grey.”
“They can’t be.” I’m certain they’re for someone else now. “She’s allergic to lilies.”
“Well, you may want to take that up with the sender, sir.” He flips the tag over. “I’m not responsible for anything else past this point. Merry Christmas.”
I look down and read the note.
Happy Holidays, babe!
I know you hate the long-distance, but it’s only temporary.
Anyway. I thought of you today and wanted to send you something special before dinner.
These flowers may look slightly old, but it’s only because I traveled all across town to find the right ones.
I can’t wait to see you tonight.
Joshua
Note for the delivery driver:
Can you make sure the price tag is ripped off before you hand them to her? Thanks!
The driver hasn’t followed the directions, as I can still see the tag. 1-Week Old Flower(s) Special! 75% off $5.99!
Jesus Christ.
FOUR
Savannah
This Christmas
Manhattan, New York
Boss-Snark Forum 1.0
Subject: Garrett West
JerryMkting: Whoever draws my name in the Secret Santa game this year, can you please gift me an email to my wife? Make it say, Subject: My condolences (Jerry was such a sweet man) Maybe if she thinks I’ve died, she’ll finally give me a divorce?
Russ76: LMAOOO I’ll do it. Speaking of divorces, rumor has it that Mr. West threatened to fire his brother. What type of bastard would fire his flesh and blood?
SavannGrey: The same type of bastard who is currently making me go shopping for a new silver tray for the Rose Ceremony as if I’m some type of intern. (Who the hell ever noticed that he used a “one hundred percent unique tray” every year? Why does this detail even matter?)
LilyV8: While you’re at the store, check and see if they have souls on sale … Buy two.
SavannGrey: Already checked. No luck. And ugh. I forgot about Secret Santa. I’ll draw my “lucky” person when I get back.
Yardley34: @Russ78 He made me wash his Maserati yesterday because I cut him off in traffic. I don’t put anything past this man anymore.
JerryMkting: Okay, here’s a better suggestion. Whoever pulls Mr. West’s name in the Secret Santa game this year, can you please gift him ten hours of psychological therapy? Then again, can we all pitch in for that anyway?
FOUR (B)
Savannah
This Christmas
Manhattan, New York
Winter winds whip my face as I rush out of the custom silver store. I’m not sure why I decided to walk two city blocks instead of getting a town car, but I’m currently regretting that decision.
Then again, maybe I need the fresh air.
Now that West Media is one and half weeks to the “prep-ceremony,” the office is in full holiday panic mode, and even though it unfolds in the exact same way every year, the pressure is still intense.
Executives from Disney, Netflix, and every cable company in the country fly in on their private jets to get on Mr. West’s good side because they know that we work on their platforms during the office party. They attempt to woo him with exclusive trips to private golf retreats, millions of dollars under the table, and a few of them even offer up their private planes. Pilot included.
What they don’t know is that I’m the one they need to impress, and I’ve already decided on my advice to Mr. West. In addition to “Grow a fucking heart,” it’s, “They’re all full of shit. Don’t make any special deals with them.”
By the time I make it to headquarters, my toes are frozen, and my curls are dripping wet from a sudden onslaught of snow.
As I wipe my boots on the entry mats, I see Garrett talking to some Disney representative at the other end of the hall. He’s wearing a custom trench coat over his three-piece suit, and every woman who walks past him steals a second glance.
I’m tempted to yell out, “He’s a man-whore, don’t waste your time,” but I’ll save that for another day.
I hand the silver tray to the main receptionist and decide to get my part in the Secret Santa game done.
“Good afternoon, Miss Grey.” The security guard asks for my ID. “Here to pick out your lucky person?”
“There’s nothing lucky about this.” I frown. “Can I pay you a few hundred dollars to not participate in this? You could easily make the adjustment in your private spreadsheet and he would never know.”