Page 3 of Manhattan State of Mind

Did those words seriously just tumble out of my mouth?

“Luuuucy,” Helen drags out. “Andy’s right. Fitting into the culture of Quinn & Wolfe is key. Our door is always open if you want to talk.”

My eyes meet hers. “We’re talking now, aren’t we?”

Andy’s stomach decides to join the conversation with a monstrous growl. “We’ll revisit next quarter. Let’s wrap this up.”

Andy’s already on his feet. He’s done.

I’m floored. Outside the glass monstrosity, the window cleaner gives me a cheeky wink. I’m half-tempted to hitch a ride down with him.

“Do reach out to us if you need anything, Lucy,” Helen coos.

Reach out? Is she after a group cuddle?

“Wait, Andy, I…” The words catch in my throat, a lump of disappointment weighing me down. Getting overlooked for the promotion is a low blow, particularly after I’ve slaved away for Quinn & Wolfe’s IT team for an eternity. It stings, not making it to the top tier. “What can I do to fix this?”

There’s a loud knock on the door. Laura, our admin support, practically falls into the room.

“Reception called,” she pants, desperately clawing for breath. “He’s early. Wolfe’s on his way!”

“Goddammit!” Andy bellows, creating a mini spit shower on the table. “He wasn’t supposed to be here until three! Out, Lucy! Move it!”

“But…” I stand, frozen in place, as Andy quickly lifts his arm to sniff his armpit, grimaces at what he finds, and then readjusts his tie with a frantic urgency.

Should I throw myself at his feet, begging him not to leave?

He bulldozes past me, striding toward the open office floor plan.

I follow him out like a dejected puppy, my spirit crushed. Why can’t I just design? I don’t want to play these corporate games.

“Clean up your desks, people!” Andy’s shout slices through the office. “He’s early! He’s coming up NOW!”

The pit in my stomach tightens. There’s no way I’ll get Andy’s ear now, not with the Big Bad Wolf making an early appearance to blow our office down.

JP Wolfe: co-founder of the monolithic Quinn & Wolfe Hotel Group and one of the wealthiest men in America.

I’ve met him once before at a company event. Our encounter lasted an excruciatingly awkward twenty seconds—just long enough for him to rake his eyes over me and deliver his signature scowl that wordlessly stated, “Not. Impressed.”

The guy is one scary son of a bitch.

Now we’re on the brink of launching a new innovation project, which always comes with a partner chaperone from the board of directors, and we’ve drawn the short straw—we get the wolf himself this time.

I plaster on a smile, taking in the pandemonium unfolding around me. My usually chill colleagues are frantically tidying up as if the hounds of hell are at their heels. I suppose one is. The foosball table sits abandoned, balls everywhere.

Matty, usually indifferent, is cleaning his desk, a first since his hiring, while Mona is under her desk, applying lipstick like her life depends on it. One desk over, Taylor strategically arranges her design trophies for maximum visibility.

Dwayne, meanwhile, remains in his own world, oblivious to the frenzy, headphones firmly in place.

“Matty, for the love of all that’s unholy, lose the Lucky Charms! This ain’t a damn café!” Andy barks, hands on his head, wet patches under his arms beyond repair. “This is the most prestigious hotel group in the United States, or did that slip your mind!?”

Fair enough. Matty’s desk is a mess, full of paper stacks, countless spent pens, and more cereal boxes than a supermarket aisle. The cleaning crew hates him.

Defeated, I slump down at my pristine desk, watching Matty’s futile attempt to jam a cereal box into his already overstuffed drawer.

“Dwayne!” Andy strides over to him, snapping his fingers in front of his face. “Look alive. Are you even alive?” He throws his hands up in despair. “God, give me strength, people.”

Wendy, in her fluster, drops a soda can.