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Two Weeks Notice
ALICE
The methodic clacking of Greyson Hart’s keyboard came to a stuttered stop as he dragged those hazel-green eyes off his screen and to my face. Blatant confusion lined his brows as he studied me, evidently intent on finding some sort of tell. He wouldn’t. I’d been rehearsing this moment for the better half of the last year. The confusion on his face was more satisfying than it likely should have been as he asked, “What?”
I smiled sweetly, refusing to rock on my heels like my nerves were begging me to, and set my resignation letter down on the sleek marble top of his desk. Sliding it across the polished surface, I repeated, “I quit.” Tapping the manilla folder, I added, “Please accept my two weeks’ notice. I’ve compiled a list of the internal candidates I believe are best suited to replace me.”
To the untrained eye, the man before me would seem unaffected. But, as everything was with Greyson, the devil was in the details. Buried below severe daddy issues, a misguided sense of injustice only an entitled trust fund baby could have, the heart of a wounded soldier, and about a decade of emotional constipation was the tiny line between his eyes, the subtle bobof his Adam’s apple and an audible swallow that said this was—somehow—news that took him by surprise.
“We have a contract, Alessandra,” he murmured, flicking up my letter as he leaned back in his armchair. One slick, heather brown loafer caught the glint of the window light as he crossed his ankle over a knee.
“We do,” I agreed, folding my anxious hands behind my back as I straightened my spine so he couldn’t see them wringing. “And it ends in two weeks’ time. I will not be re-signing on for another term.”Oooh, I got a jaw flex—that was about as unhinged and out of control as Greyson got, and some petty, vindictive sliver of my soul was squealing in victory as his eyes abandoned my face in favor of the paper in between his fingers, canting his head as his eyes flew across the page.
“Two years, two promotions, and two weeks’ notice? How very ironic.” The words flowed with the same svelte ribbon he used in his meetings. The man thrived on control and very little else.
Control of the schedule.
Control of the team chat—of when we submitted our work, of his own infuriating and unwavering discipline.
He was the only man I’d ever known to get quieter when something pissed him off. No matter how high the stakes were in a negotiation, Greyson’s strength was concealed in his silence. His unwillingness to yield and to hold the line with a steady, unaffected facade. All skills I’m sure he picked up during his years as a Navy Seal.
Two. Years. Fortwo years,I shared air with the man across from me—known to my family by a myriad of unflattering names, none of which were anywhere in the ballpark ofGreyson. Hartless. Fuck-face. The fire-breathing dragon. For two years, I bit my tongue and took it up the ass daily. Frankly, at this point, the literal option sounded like a walk in the park compared tothe grueling torture that had been servingHart Investmentsfor the last twenty-three months, fifteen days, seven hours, and forty-nine minutes. But who’s counting?
Like the irritated, telltale twitch of a cat’s tail, he drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair before expelling a breath that sent my anxiety climbing. Greyson leaned forward, setting my letter on the marble between us before bracing his forearms on the desk, broad hands clasped together in the perfect image of composure.
He nodded at the chair opposite him and gave me a curt, “Have a seat, Ms. Rhodes.”
Dammit. I knew I should have waited until four fifty-nine.Refusing to let him see the volcano inside me just waiting to explode, I spooled myself into the chair, with only the slick black expanse of stone as a barrier between us. Crossing my ankles, I leaned onto the desk to mirror his position. Those intense hazels locked on me a beat before a more pronouncedvcarved the olive skin between his eyes.
“Permission to speak candidly?” His request threw me so far off guard, all I could manage were two perplexed blinks and an unsure nod. The man gave orders—he certainly didn’taskpermission to eviscerate me on the regular. Like a child in the principal’s office, I shifted my weight in my seat before reminding myself that I would no longer squirm for Greyson Hart.
I’d held my own here. Challenged him. Advanced our projects. Saved deals that were half-sideways. I’d become a pillar of the department despite his blatant disapproval. He would not intimidate menow. Permission granted, he continued, “You’ve been moving up the ladder here, Alessandra. Aggressively for someone your age, with your…background.”My background.For pity’s sake, the man hadn’t held back when I’d interviewed for Oliver’s department—his younger, actuallyhumanoid brother—a few summers back. Told me there was no way somecountry bumpkinwould cut it in the big leagues. What part ofthird-generation Alaskan fishing familysaid I’d grown up throwing hay bales? And if I had, how in the hell would that disqualify me?Elitist prick. That lovely analysis was leveled about ten minutes before Ollie brought me on board, anyway.
And how was it that every single person in my life could get their head around the fact that I preferred being called Alice—his brother and niece included—but he insisted on using my full name?
Somehow, not three months after Ollie brought me on, I was transferred into Captain Hartless’ direct clutches. And the bastard hadn’t let go since.
“What inspired the sudden disregard for your prior efforts?”
Swallowing, I stepped into the wet blanket facade of a personality that was obligatory in the corporate climate and explained, “My vision for my life no longer aligns with your expectations of my performance.”
“Myexpectations?” he asked, the tiniest quirk of his head the only indicator that his perplexed tone was authentic. “Please, tell me which expectations contradict your…vision.”
I wanted to burst out laughing. Iwanted totell him that repeatedly calling me while I stood with my big sister as she got married was so far over the goddamn line he couldn’t evenseethe line anymore. My older sister and her now-husband painfully pined for decades before finally taking the plunge and admitting what so many of us saw coming for years. Instead of enjoying the kismet caress of the sun on our skin as they exchanged vows in our perpetually cloud-shrouded hometown, I was praying to all that was holy that nobody else could hear the unending vibration of my cell. I wanted to tell him that his barging in on my first date in three years and calling a mandatory meeting was such a ridiculous display of entitlementand a severe lack of boundaries that his mother should be ashamed. I wasn’t sure what I was born to do in this world, but it certainly needed to be more important than covering up a grown-ass adult’s mistakes.
Instead, I weighed the reality that there were few men west of the Mississippi who held as much influence as my boss and simply said, “I’m sorry to admit I am no longer an adequate fit for the position. My work-life balance has become a priority that the demands of my role will not responsibly accommodate.”
“Would it sway your decision if I assigned an assistant?”
My head snapped up from where my eyes had settled on the white veins in the marble, and my throat tightened. Was he…pushing back on my decision to quit? The formal request was more a nicety than actually asking for his permission. “An assistant? Foryourassistant?” He gave the briefest of nods, and I quirked my head, “Why would you do that?”
An invisible fishhook snagged the left side of his mouth as something like disbelief sparked in his eyes. Greyson ran his fingers through his chocolate hair, freeing an uncharacteristic stray from the meticulous style I’d grown so accustomed to seeing. When I saw him for the first time, I was struck by how gorgeous the Hart brothers truly were. You always see men like them in magazines and plastered over social media—especially American royalty like the Harts—but they don’t often live up to the hype in person.
But…not Greyson.
If anything, he wasmorebreathtaking in person. At least, right until he opened his too-pretty mouth with his too-straight, too-white teeth and told me I’d never make it in Emerald Bay. Just like that, the broad shoulders, sharp jaw, strong brow, and thick head of dark hair lost their appeal. Mostly, it stayed that way. Only the occasional navy suit that hugged his biceps a little too tightly or the unfortunate run-in on the beach where moreskin than clothing was on display reminded me that he was more than adequately attractive beneath those walls. Or, you know, moments like this, where he looked the tiniest fraction disheveled—human.