“What is this?”
“Open it.” He’s growling, but there’s triumph in his voice.
I open the first page. It’s from the early sixties, when this company was founded, a welcome package for new hires. I feel like I’m on the set of Mad Men.
“Is this a joke? You want me to be…let see…‘fastidious about my appearance at all times? To have a flair for organization and a bright, cheery smile’? Luke, give me the updated rules. This is from the fifties.”
He smirks. “It never got updated. I’m not going to lie to your company and say you fucked up. But you’re going to follow the rules, or you’re out.”
He could so easily call them up and say I was late, or rude—and they’d replace me with another temp. He doesn’t just want to win. He wants to beat me fair.
“Read through it,” he growls. “I’m sure you can get it done by seven. And clean up my office and your fucking desk. It’s all messy.”
I look down at the drawers, all in disarray, and my fists clench. With that, he leaves, walking down the hallway, his pants tailored to his firm ass while every fucking girl in the office from twenty to sixty bats their eyes at him.
I grit my teeth. So he wants to play again?
Fine.
Game on.
7
Luke
My phone buzzes and I turn it to silent as my head pounds. I get water from the fridge and slam it down my throat while giving a side eye to the text.
Done fucking Rodriguez?