Summer Worthington doesn't hate her corporate job, per se. It's her god-awful boss, Mr. Griffin - or, as her roommates like to call him, Mr. Grouchy - who's the problem. He's cruel, cold-hearted, and the most attractive man she's ever seen.
As his p...
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"WE WERE WORKING ON THOSE federal advertisements about drink-driving, and they'd brought the deadline forward. You gave me a bunch of impossible jobs to do," I continue, placing a less-than-subtle emphasis on the word impossible. "I had to cancel my plans with Lauren and Zac, because I knew I wouldn't make our dinner reservation in time. I tried telling you I was busy, that it was my birthday, but you were in back-to-back meetings all day. You left before I could talk to you or explain, and I knew if I didn't get it done, you'd probably fire me the next day. So, I stayed late . . . for hours, almost as late as tonight. Lauren ordered takeout for us, and it was cold when I got home. It fucking sucked."
Tears well in my eyes, and my heart turns over heavily. I probably sound like a petulant child, but Max Griffin, for all intents and purposes, ruinedmy twenty-sixth birthday and simultaneously made me feel like a piece of old gum he'd scraped off the bottom of his shoe. Worse, he probably didn't even remember. It wasn't hard to dislike him after that. For a girl who'd had to leave her whole family behind when she moved to Sydney, celebrating with my best friends that night was one of the only things I could do. It wasn't long after the lockdown had lifted, and my birthday dinner had been a beacon of hope for my mental state—something that was in tatters. Important dates and key milestones—my parent's 30th wedding anniversary—had rolled around, and I couldn't be with them, all because of the pandemic. And I had to cancel my birthday plans—the one glimmer of normalcy—because of him and his rude, frosty indifference.
"That's why I sent out birthday reminders when I was your PA. I never wanted anyone else's birthday to be forgotten like mine was. I know employees are dispensable, just a number, to most companies, but that was low, Max. Even for you."
Even for you.
I don't know why, but I add it in at the last minute. It's the only hint that the previous ice-cold acrimony I felt towards him has thawed.
And, until this conversation, I'd thought maybe it'd melted, drained away, completely. But maybe it hasn't.
Maybe I'm still holding a grudge.
Spending so much time in the past feels like sealing myself inside one of those industrial freezers. I'm numb and cold all over. His presence no longer heats my insides or feels like a blow torch against my skin. I know we've found common ground lately, been so connected—even if we're still just friends—but right now, there's nothing hot about this. He's hurt me. A lot.
There are other things I could list or rattle off—other ways he's inadvertently made me feel small and inferior since my birthday—but some of them are petty and insignificant and . . . not so one-sided. Again, my birthday was the deciding moment—where all this bitterness stemmed from. It's something I'm trying so hard to let go of, to forget, but it's always there, like an annoying, lingering ghost.
