Page 4 of Devilish Bully (Steamy Latte Reads Collection #3)
THE ACCOUNTANT
KENDALL
I’m convinced there are only three types of assholes in this world: the ones who take a class and learn how to be one, the ones who are naturally born with it baked into their DNA, and Lucian Pearson.
And I’m pretty sure he’s ranked number one.
As if I needed a personal countdown clock, he’s invaded my inbox three times a day since we met with the same subject line: Rough Reminder: Quarterly Report.
It’s as if he thinks seeing his name flash on my screen will somehow make me work faster.
Spoiler alert: It hasn’t.
Double spoiler alert: I’m still not finished.
My stomach twists as I punch the numbers again and again, my calculator blinking the same impossible result. Three million. Gone. It’s too neat, too precise to be a simple mistake—tiny withdrawals that add up to a perfect, impossible number. Three million dollars unaccounted for.
For a billion-dollar company, it’s nothing. But for me? It’s a boulder on my chest. Accounting is supposed to be my thing—my passion, my precision—and I can’t let this go.
Mindy
I’ve got snacks on snacks on snacks! Are you coming back to join the team for audit check tonight?
No, I can’t leave Myra overnight so I’ll work from home. Call me whenever you need help with something.
Will do! PS—Don’t forget to fill out that survey. The board is threatening to deduct $50 off your next check for whoever doesn’t. O_o #hellonearth
I tiptoe past Myra’s room, listening for her steady breathing before I twist open a bottle of tequila. The cap pops sharp in the quiet, and I pour myself a glass with a hand that isn’t as steady as it should be. Maybe if I drink enough, the numbers will finally add up.
By the time I’m halfway through recalculating travel expenses, my inbox pings.
Subject : Rough Reminder. Quarterly Report
Of course.
Against my better judgment, I open it.
Miss Clarke,
I could’ve sworn I marked this report as being due this morning.
Have you died? Do I need to make funeral arrangements?
—Lucian Pearson
“Unbelievable,” I mutter, rolling my eyes as I type out a blistering response. Delete. Redraft. Delete again. A few sips of tequila later, I finally manage something with no F-bombs.
Good evening, Mr. Pearson,
No, I have not passed away, and I doubt you would care if I did…
Nonetheless, this was a very tight deadline for this big of a project, and I mentioned to my supervisor that I needed more time.
Thank you for understanding.
—Kendall Clarke
His reply lands before I can even take another sip.
Miss Clarke,
I would care if you passed away.
I would also show up to your funeral in hopes that you left some of your finished work with one of your family members.
The quarterly report needs to be in my inbox by midnight.
No more extensions.
I never said I “understood.”
—Lucian Pearson
“Okay, fuck you,” I mutter, slamming my laptop shut.
I flop facedown on the couch, the cushions swallowing me whole. For the first time all week, I let myself just be still. A few blissful minutes pass before I roll over, balancing my tequila on the armrest, sipping like it’s holy water.
Another email.
Subject: Employee Satisfaction Survey Request: Expires at Midnight (Mandatory)
“You’ve got to be kidding me,” I groan, sitting up.
I feel empowered to do my best work.
1 star. Strongly disagree.
My CEO supports my growth.
1 star. Strongly disagree.
I skim the rest of the statements and rapid-fire hit “strongly disagree” all the way down.
Any comments about how the CEO could make this company a better place?
Nope. Skip.
ERROR: You must answer this question before submitting.
“Ugh!” I slam my glass down and jab at the keyboard. okokokokokokok.
ERROR: Your answer must be at least 250 words.
“Are you kidding me?”
I yank open the Amazon page for my last book, copy the blurb, paste it in, and hit submit.
You’re almost done! Do you have anything you wish to share with the shareholders about your employment at Pearson or your CEO?
“No, thank you,” I mutter, clicking the box—when my phone buzzes with a call from an unknown number.
“Hello?”
“So, I have to call you from an unknown number to get you to answer me, Miss Clarke?”
Lucian’s voice drips through the line, low and edged with irritation. It’s unfair how much better it sounds outside an email—he should be narrating audiobooks of sins, not badgering me about quarterly reports.
“Hello?” he presses. “Miss Clarke?”
“No hablo inglés…” I mumble.
“Bullshit.” His hiss slides like smoke into my ear. “I need to present these to the shareholders at our all-hands meeting tomorrow.”
“I’m having a hard time hearing whoever this is,” I say, pushing the glass to my lips. “My phone must be broken. Goodbye.”
I hang up.
He calls right back.
I watch the rings appear on the screen, one by one, until voicemail cuts him off.
Silence.
Finally.
I take a long pull from the tequila and click on the TV. Love Island or Gone Girl? Either feels safer than thinking about him.
My phone lights up again—Mindy’s name.
“You’ll never guess who just tried to call me,” I say as I pick up. “Lucian has the audacity to?—”
“Your English sounds just fine to me, Miss Clarke.”
I gasp.
“I borrowed your coworker’s phone,” Lucian says smoothly, answering before I can ask. “She and the rest of your team are pulling an all-nighter at headquarters since they’re clearly more dedicated to this job than you are.”
My tongue goes dry.
“I need to see you right after the meeting.”
“The all-hands meetings don’t usually end until, like, four in the afternoon…”
“And?”
“Fridays are the start of my weekends.” I slur. “I’d prefer if we met Monday morning.”
“Only one of us is the CEO, Miss Clarke.”
The line goes dead.
I grip the bottle tighter, fighting the urge to smash it against the wall.
With a growl, I pull that survey back up, crack my knuckles, and give him a piece of my mind…