Yours forever, p.3
Yours, Forever, page 3
We're toast. But god, I have to try.
Two hours later, I practically stumble out of the conference room in a daze. If I look at this objectively, Dustin really grew up well. His perfectly trimmed beard is thick—men all over the internet would probably pine for facial hair like that. Especially considering the chiseled jawline I know that beard is hiding. And there's no sign of premature balding like his Uncle James. Good for him.
But his attitude? Jesus. He's such a dick. It's like he kept all of the teenage dickishness every boy has, multiplied it by twenty, and called it "personal growth." I bet he posts long-winded paragraphs on LinkedIn about what losing his beard trimmer taught him about B2B sales. I bet he wears University of Michigan shirts unironically. I bet he charms the hell out of boomer parents with his stock portfolio. I bet he listens to those men's dating advice podcasts and negs women.
Okay, maybe that one's a bit of a stretch. He doesn't disrespect women; he disrespects everyone. But he's very good at hiding it professionally. He was disgustingly prepared for that meeting, and I know Kelly is seeing motherly hearts every time she looks at him. Even I have to admit that his notes (that he shared with us before officially ending the meeting) were precise and accurate.
I still don't like it. And I really don't like the fact that I'll be working so closely with him. Integrating tech stacks—can't we just smash it together and see what happens?
"What did you just say?" Felicity interrupts my train of thought—doom thoughts, really—with a look of shock.
"Huh? What did I say?" Shit, did I say any of that out loud?
"You asked if we could smash the tech stacks together and see what happens—are you okay? Was the meeting really that bad? Is he horrible?" Andrea interjects.
Christ. "That was a joke, guys. The meeting was fine. Everyone's job is safe, I promise." I hope. "Back to work, team."
The team grumbles but turns back to their computers and dutifully type away. I open my laptop again and pull up a blank document. All I can think about is how I'm going to keep the team safe. I'm going to have to apologize. I'm going to have to smile and schmooze. I can do that, right?
Right?
Dustin
At exactly six-thirty in the evening, my day is finally complete, and I gently close my laptop lid, packing up to leave. Most of the DropTop employees have already left for the day. I watched them from the corner of my eye as they filed past the all-glass conference room, gawking at me. Probably hoping I'm not here for their jobs.
And I'm really not. That's not my decision to make. My job here, as I have explained to everyone I've met with today, is to introduce their new parent company and figure out the best place to fit them within the existing infrastructure of Atmosphere. Sure, there's bound to be some friction and high emotions. Switching out Slack for Teams, migrating from G Suite to MS Office, planning the merge of their internal documentation database to ours. None of that is immediate, though, and none of that will happen this month.
Like I've said so many times, I'm just here to figure out the puzzle of DropTop. This is the part of my job I love: solving problems. I've always been a puzzle guy, and I get to expertly slide the pieces around to find the perfect fit. Except there is one piece that's nagging at the back of my mind: Brooke.
Brooke Dunne. She must have gotten married at some point, though I didn't see a ring on her finger. Maybe that's why I couldn't find her on social media?
I shut down that line of thought very quickly. This is a professional working relationship, and there is no reason to complicate it further. She is simply one of the hundreds of new Atmosphere employees. So simple. I'm here, I'll do my job, and I'll leave. No strings attached.
"Dustin?" A familiar feminine voice interrupts my thoughts.
God dammit. "Hi, Brooke."
"Uh, hi. I wanted to, um, apologize. For how I treated you yesterday," Brooke mumbles. "It wasn't fair. And, uh, if you want me to declare our past… you know… to HR? I've got it drafted already."
I sit back down and gesture to the chair on the other end of this ridiculous post-modern conference table. I bet it costs as much as my mortgage every month, if not more. "Please, sit."
She slumps into the chair and looks at me with guilty eyes. "I can send it—"
"—Not necessary," I cut her off, raising a hand. "That was over a decade ago. And, technically, I am not your boss. I am here to seamlessly fit DropTop into Atmosphere. We do not have a conflict of interest—unless you want to sabotage my work. Do you?"
"No!" Brooke blurts out immediately. "I mean, no, of course not. I just… yeah. I wanted to apologize. So, like, sorry."
"Apology accepted."
She's silent for a beat, staring at me expectantly. Unsure of what she wants, I rise again and head toward the glass door.
"Don't you have anything to say to me, too?"
What? "No. Apology accepted. Let's move on, please. Have a good night."
"Ugh, seriously?" She stands as well and cocks out her hip, deep lines forming between her brows.
"Yes, seriously. Please enjoy your evening." I quickly exit the room and walk with purpose down the hall. She follows me, her sneakers squeaking on the trendy concrete floor.
"You're not going to apologize?" She overtakes me and plants herself firmly in my way.
"For what?" I shake my head.
"For stealing my cupcake!" Brooke pokes me in the chest with a perfectly manicured light pink fingernail. I take a step back and clench my jaw.
"Absolutely not. You started it. Now, if you'll excuse me, I would like to leave," I grit out.
"Oh, my god. You're such an asshole. You started it, and you stole my cupcake!"
Pushing past her, I scoff. The elevator is so close, and the studio apartment is only a few blocks away. I can stop at a bodega and grab a sandwich for dinner. This is a ridiculous argument, and I refuse to participate. She storms after me, sputtering and fuming.
I make it to the elevator, and miraculously, it opens immediately. I slam the "close door" button over and over, trying to keep her from entering, but she's a force of nature just like she always has been.
"You stole from me, asshole," she snarls as the doors close us into the metal box. "You—of all people on this Earth—you show up in my friend's shop and then at my job. You stole from me and I was the bigger person—I apologized to you! Why are you so allergic to saying you're sorry?"
"Allergic?" I sputter. "Oh, I'm sorry. So sorry that your shitty cupcakes didn't sell out immediately—what do you even use? Box mix? Fucking unbelievable."
Her eyes flash with fury, and she stomps over to the corner. I can't quite make out what she's saying under her breath, but I imagine it's unpleasant.
I tried, you know? I really tried to put our past behind us and move forward—professionally—by sticking to my job. My dentist is going to be irate at the pressure I'm putting on my molars by grinding my teeth. She refuses to play nice; she refuses to leave well enough alone. She pokes, and she prods, and she makes demands—just like she used to.
I used to love that about her. Now? She's the most irritating woman on the face of the planet. With her stupid ponytail and hoop earrings and that adorable up-turned nose that I used to kiss as often as she'd let me. And the smattering of freckles all over her cheeks. Disgusting. Absolutely not attractive. Not in the slightest.
The doors slowly slide open when we reach the ground floor. Brooke storms out and I reluctantly follow her. I mean, I'm not following her. I am simply returning to the apartment and she's in my way. She hasn't said another word to me, which is good, because I'm in no fucking mood to chat after her little hissy fit.
My stomach growls, and I remember I still haven't had a real meal. I slip my phone out of my pocket and try to find something nearby. I'm in New York City, for fuck's sake, there just has to be a salad in the vicinity.
Whump.
My phone clatters along the floor as I collide with a somewhat short, warm body with a furious face. Fucking unbelievable. Losing my balance, I grab at anything to break my fall. Unfortunately, the "anything" turned out to be Brooke. She topples over and pins me to the floor, both of us groaning in pain.
This is the worst day. The absolute worst day. I don't care that her soft curves are pressing me into the floor. I don't care that she smells like the world's best bakery. I don't care that she matured into an absolutely gorgeous woman.
But I very much care that her face is turning red as she winds up to yell at me some more. "Why the fuck don't you watch where you're going?"
"Me?" I shove her to the side and scramble to my feet. "Takes two to tango, Brooke. Aren't you big-city folk supposed to be sooo savvy? You're walkin' here and all that?"
"I—you! You made me forget my bag! Your asshole behavior got me—ugh!" She throws her hands up in the air and stabs a finger at the elevator button to recall the car.
"Sucks to suck, Brooky-poo." I grin. "See you tomorrow, bright and early!"
With that woman pissed off to hell and back but no longer in my personal space, I feel a bit lighter. I might grab a salad with fried chicken on the side. Yeah, that sounds great. A perfect treat to pick myself up.
I don't want to know how much this apartment costs Atmosphere every month. Yes, it's a studio, but the combined kitchen/living/sleeping area just drips with luxury. Italian marble counters gleam under the trendy Edison bulb pendant lights. Designer rugs cover the expertly polished hardwood flooring. And the bed is massive—it has to be bigger than a king. I don't know what comes after a king, besides California king. If I recall correctly, California kings aren't necessarily bigger, just longer.
My belly is full of an exorbitantly expensive salad. The bougie restaurant I found didn't have fried chicken, but that's for the best. It would be silly of me to go whole hog on fried food. The only thing left for me to do today is take a steamy shower and snuggle into that massive bed. It really is over the top: I'm only one man. But sprawling out on expensive sheets? I'll never say no to that.
The bathroom is even more decadent. Floor-to-ceiling marbled tile (white with grey veins, of course) and shiny brass hardware give off an air of excellence that I'm sure Atmosphere is paying out the nose for. Steam fills the room as I turn on the water. The pressure is perfect, not too soft, not too hard. The mirror must have some kind of heating element as well because it stays perfectly clear. I huff out a weak chuckle as I quickly disrobe and step into the glass shower stall.
Stress melts away as the heated water pours over my body. I never forget my toiletries on a trip like this, but the company has fully stocked the bathroom. The body wash is labeled "Jade and Pine." Not quite sure what jade smells like, but my skin practically drinks up the moisture. It's all so lovely, but an annoying little voice pops into the back of my mind.
Asshole behavior!
Why are you so allergic to saying you're sorry?
You stole my cupcake!
My shoulders tense, and a sigh rumbles out of my lungs. I really did want to get through this month with my professional dignity intact. I mean, I still do—what am I saying? Ugh, I can't believe Brooke has me all discombobulated like this. After all these years, she's still as fiery as I remember. God, I used to love that about her. But back then, I was never on the receiving end.
Her furious expression lingers in my mind as I slip into bed. I may smell fresh as a daisy—or as fresh as jade and pine, whatever—but I just feel… off. Brooke is the problem, not me. But if she wants to play dirty? I can, too.
Brooke
My grandmother used to tell me to be careful about my face. It'll stick like that, she'd say when I pulled a particularly foul expression. When I was a kid, I'd scoff and pull my eyelids down and stick out my tongue. Today, though, I think she might be right. I think the grimace I've worn since yesterday's confrontation might be permanent.
"Don't you look happy," Felicity mutters as I swoop into the office.
"Yeesh. Frown lines, Brooke. Unless you're springing for Botox?" Darrell asks as he leans around his monitor to give me a once-over.
"I'm fine. It's fine. We're fine. Don't you think we're all fine?" I try to force my lips to smile. Based on the reaction of my team, it doesn't work.
"Wow. No. You look like someone just told you you're banned from sushi for a year," Darrell giggles.
Jesus. I'm supposed to be shielding the team from corporate bullshit, not bringing it in the door and flaunting it about. Usually, that's no problem, but with Dustin lurking around the corner? It's suddenly a lot harder than it looks.
"Seriously guys, it's chill. It's cool. It's coolio, even."
"No," the whole team choruses together, and I grimly accept defeat.
"Fine. Does anyone want coffee? I need, like, a gallon. Maybe directly into my veins," I offer with hands outstretched. That gets their attention off my face. They all chatter together about the various mix-ins to their java and I even catch a few words about the current project: new modules for the ecommerce sector.
I quickly set down my bag and head to the kitchen, where we have a fancy coffee machine that brews individual packets. Travis, our CEO, claims this kind is better for the environment than the classic Keurig based on the paper baggies of pre-blended coffee and flavorings. I'm happy to believe that.
Though, with Atmosphere acquiring us, how long will all of these fun little perks last? Will they start slashing the budget the instant Dustin leaves—or sooner? He claims he doesn't have the authority to do so, but why would they send him if not for financial intel as well as tech stack investigation? Or maybe they'll send another guy after him. Someone nicer. Someone whose heart I didn't break a decade ago.
"Morning."
I freeze. I didn't hear Dustin come in, and I know he wasn't here when I started this little ritual. How is he so fucking sneaky? Warily, I turn to face him in the doorway.
"Good morning," I manage to grit out. "Did you have a nice evening?"
"Perfectly swell," he snarls. "I hope you didn't have any plans for tonight."
I don't, but I can't let him know that. "Unfortunately, I have a prior engagement. May I ask why?"
"Cancel it," he commands. "We need to discuss the integration of your team's stack into Atmosphere's. I'm absolutely swamped with back-to-back meetings all day today, and it can't wait until next week."
Next week? Shit, is it Friday already? God, I cannot stick around after hours on a Friday to be completely alone with him. "I'm sorry, that won't be possible."
"That wasn't a request." Dustin steps closer, and I can smell his soap. Something woodsy. I think Nora from HR would have a conniption if she walked in right now—he's too goddamn close. "Collaboration is one of Atmosphere's core values. Are you saying you don't align with the core values?"
"Of course I do," I mutter with a scowl. Nana was right—my face will stick like this. "I'll confirm with you before end of day."
"Glad to hear it. Enjoy your day, Ms. Dunne."
Ms. Dunne. Did anyone ever tell you how hard it is to change your name both professionally and personally? Sure, getting married is the fun part. People congratulate you when you ask to update your records. It's a happy occasion. When you get divorced, though, all you get are pitying eyes and hushed apologies.
Try as I might to erase every part of Calvin from my life, some parts of the company personnel database are still branded with my married name. And no matter how many times I gripe at IT, somehow, my email always changes back to "Dunne." I'd like to point out the fact that my email signature says Moore. Leave it to Dustin to poke at wounds.
With the team's coffee orders stacked precariously on one of those little cardboard drink holders, I return to our section of the office and pass them out silently. I know they're whispering about me, but I just can't focus on it. I know they'll get their work done. They always do. I think they like to work extra hard to make me—and themselves—look good when I'm out of sorts. It's what I love about them. It's why I'm going to fight, tooth and nail, against fucking Dustin in this acquisition.
After a longer time than I meant to linger, I finally open my laptop and see the meeting invitation from Dickbag Dustin. Today, Friday evening, six-thirty to eight-thirty. What on earth could take two hours to discuss? On a Friday? I rub my temples and sigh before I can catch myself.
"What's the matter, boss-lady?" Andrea pipes up.
"Nothing. I'm just tired, that's all."
"Late night? Did Ricky keep you up with his diamond hands and puts?" Darrell snorts.
"Ugh, I wish it was that simple—I mean, no. I've just had a lot on my mind. You know, the baking side hustle isn't panning out as well as I'd hoped. But really, guys, it's going to be fine. We always have been, and we always will be. Just promise me that you'll give me some heads up if any of you decide to look for other employment, okay?" Hopefully, my forced smile will show that I'm joking—or trying to—but they just solemnly nod and turn back to their screens.
The day dragged by as I stared at the clock in the top-right of my laptop screen. I didn't have the heart to connect to my external monitor. A cold feeling of dread grew in my stomach over the hours. I couldn't even enjoy my sushi-rito lunch. That's a sushi burrito, and it's just about my favorite food abomination in the city. The gentle tingle from the spicy salmon didn't even perk me up.
My team packs up for the day at five, like they always do. I force another weary smile as they file out. Andrea's signature brightly patterned dress is the last bit of momentary joy I can force myself to appreciate. I envy her, you know? She's incredibly brash but has the competence to back it up. And her dresses are always so beautiful. Flowy sundresses in the summer, swishy floor-length in the winter. Always as bright as the sun or thereabout.
Today's dress was a pale pink background with vibrant fuchsia blooms in an all-over print. I have no idea where she gets them—she might sew them herself? She really is a talented woman, and I'm so happy I get to work with her. But that joy sours in my gut as the time inches closer to Dustin's meeting. I hope I can keep her job. I hope I can keep the whole team's jobs.
