Page 20 of Theirs to Hunt (Girls Like Us #1)

Chapter twenty

T he elevator doors slide open, announcing a moment I’m not quite ready for. Of course Jeff is in there. Marketing Jeff. Creepy Jeff. The guy who still has a badge, apparently rewarded for leering.

Today, he’s smirking. All knowing and smug. It makes me want to hit the emergency stop and start swinging.

“Reagan,” he says, stepping aside. A gentleman-shaped red flag. “Didn’t expect to see you here this week.”

I step in, arms crossed. “Guess we’re both full of surprises.”

He lets out a fake chuckle. “Speaking of surprises… you hear about Genevieve? Poof. California. Some cushy HR job out west.”

My stomach flips, but I don’t blink.

Jeff leans in slightly, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “Pretty sure she stepped on the wrong toe. Or maybe spent the bonus too, obviously. ”

My pulse hammers. So he knows something. Or thinks he does.

“And here I thought you just had a good phone voice,” he adds, eyes skating too low.

I smile tightly, tilting my head. “I’m guessing you were the one who suggested she invite me.” I try to play it off, vague but plausible. That knocks a little of the smug out of him.

“You seemed real invested in the bonus scheme,” I add, keeping my tone light and terrifying. “Hope you kept your receipts.”

The elevator dings, but I hold the moment a beat longer. “Just a tip, Jeff? When someone disappears that fast, it’s never just about HR. It’s about what they knew, and who they pissed off.”

He pales. I step out, let the doors begin to close, and then, sweet as southern tea, toss over my shoulder, “Maybe check your expense reports. Make sure everything tracks.”

With that zinger, I head down the hall toward the surprise meeting. Jeff usually attends these. Maybe I threw him off his game if he kept riding the elevator, or maybe he’s just waiting for the next hapless woman to step on so he can try his tired lines.

The biggest surprise? They actually remembered to invite Customer Service.

Normally, they make a bunch of great decisions on paper that customers immediately hate, and we’re left scrambling to come up with verbiage to soothe the savage beasts.

If you haven’t been called a soul-stealing corporate leech, or useless as a bag of used plastibell rings by an octogenarian, have you even lived?

For morale, I started a board of “Most Original Insults.” Every week, the team votes on the best one, and the winner gets to pick a hundred-dollar gift card.

It helps ease the sting. Now they practically fist-pump when they get a creative insult.

Everything aside, it’ll be nice to have input on a rollout, hopefully one that helps both our customers and our team.

By the time I step into the executive wing, I’ve reapplied lip gloss twice, wiped my palms on my skirt three times, and questioned my outfit at least a dozen times.

I chose my most neutral blouse, tucked into wide-leg black slacks, hoping it reads competent and invisible. I don’t want to be noticed. Not today.

Outside Conference Room A, people cluster in hushed conversation. A few faces from other departments glance my way with polite confusion. Great. They don’t know why I’m here either.

The door opens. A man I assume is Grayson Calhoun is seated at the head of the table. I freeze. Oh. My. God. No. It can’t be. Those eyes. I know those eyes. Sharp. Icy. Unflinching. They match my apartment wall, because I painted it from memory.

Grayson Calhoun is the man in the Tiger Mask. Brooks’ dad. The fuck-me-senseless masked monster I cannot stop thinking about.

I have been outplayed and outclassed. I need to step up my game. Shit. He has so many resources. Maybe I really am the fawn. Double shit. Definitely not feeling queen energy right now.

He’s exactly how I remember: sharp, still, and impossible to look away from.

Same unreadable expression. Same commanding presence.

And now I know what he looks like when he’s not wearing a tiger’s face.

He doesn’t speak. Doesn’t move. Just watches me over the rim of his coffee cup.

I’m a variable in an equation he already solved.

Well, shit. Definitely a trap. My nipples tighten, because of course they do. Fantastic. My body wants to get me fired. Pull yourself together, bitch.

I force myself to move, sliding into a seat farther down the table, as far away as I can manage without looking obvious. My nameplate has been placed way too close to the center of the conference table. I swap it out, further away from his all-seeing gaze.

The meeting begins. Budgets. Strategic projections. A new AI-enhanced call routing system from IT. I nod. Jot notes. Nod again. Every few minutes, I feel his gaze. Just a flicker. A glance. Enough to make me question if I’m imagining it.

Then the AI pitch lands, and my stomach drops.

They’re proud of it. Automated routing, limited human contact, efficiency boosts across the board.

Except I know what this means for my team.

Our highest dissatisfaction ratings come from non-human interaction.

Most of our callers are over sixty. The younger ones don’t call, they chat.

And if we fully automate? It’ll tank our numbers.

My team’s bonuses, their pay structure, gone.

No one else seems worried. I shift, weighing the risk of opening my mouth.

Do I raise a red flag? Or stay invisible and let it burn?

My hand cramps from how tightly I’m gripping my pen.

Grayson still hasn’t said much. He listens.

Asks surgical questions. Lets the room bend around him.

He doesn’t need to lift a finger. But I can feel it, just under the surface.

The tension. The pull. Everyone here answers to him. And right now, so do I.

I stare down at my notes, heart pounding so hard it’s drowning out the conversation.

No one’s questioning it. Not the VPs. Not the directors.

Not even creepy Jeff from Marketing, who usually can’t resist the sound of his own voice.

I glance around the room. My pen taps once against the page.

Then again. My stomach twists. If I speak, I’ll draw attention.

If I don’t, I’ll let my team take a huge hit, both financially and morale-wise.

My chair shifts faintly as I clear my throat. It’s a small sound, but the room quiets. A few heads turn. I force myself to look up. “Sorry,” I say, trying to keep my tone steady. “I just… I think there’s a concern that hasn’t been addressed.”

The IT rep blinks. “Okay…? ”

“The proposed AI routing,” I push through the nerves. “It’s efficient on paper. But Customer Service fields a majority of its calls from older customers. People who already struggle with the automated prompts we have now.”

I pause. No one interrupts, so I keep going. “They don’t want a system. They want a person. And if you automate too far, you’re not improving satisfaction, you’re killing it.”

A long beat. Then I look straight ahead. Right at him. “Which affects our ratings. And pay. It won’t just hurt morale, it’ll hurt the bottom line.”

Grayson doesn’t speak right away. He’s leaning back, arms crossed, his face unreadable. Those blue eyes don’t leave mine. The silence stretches just long enough to make me wonder if I overstepped. Then, finally, he nods once.

“Duly noted,” he says, voice low and calm. “Please deliver a written analysis of the projected impact to my office by the end of day.”

I blink. That’s it? Not dismissed. Not shot down. Not… punished.

“Of course. Yes, sir,” I manage, trying not to sound breathless. He holds my gaze a moment longer, a small smirk playing around the edges of his lips, then turns back to the table like nothing happened.

Suddenly, the breath rushes back in my lungs.

I can breathe again… yet there is also a yearning for his intense focus to be directed back at me.

When a man with his presence actually sees you and focuses on you, it is indescribable, and you realize you will do anything to feel this way again. And again.

Good golly, if I feel this in the boardroom, can I handle the power he would wield in the bedroom? And what sort of man whore have I become where two completely different men have so much of my attention? Three, if you count the mysterious Brooks .

I jerk my head up at the sound of a throat clearing. It’s Jeff.

“Rea-gan,” he drawls, dragging out my name, keeping the flavor in his mouth, giving me the absolute ick. “Doll, huh? Way to get the boss’s attention. I know you’re not usually in these meetings, but the trick is to keep your head down, or you end up with more work.”

He leans in, too close. This must be his idea of mentorship. “But, hey… I can help you with the report. Walk you through the numbers in my office. Could teach you a thing or two.”

My brain stutters. I just survived eye contact with the actual devil in a bespoke suit, and this is what I get? Leisure Suit Larry 5.0?

I blink once. Twice. Then I smile. Slowly. “Oh Jeff, how generous of you.”

He puffs up like a prize rooster.

I lean closer. “But I’m good. I prefer to do it by myself.”

I don’t wait for his response. I grab my notebook, rise smoothly, and walk out without a second glance. My heart’s still hammering. But it’s not because of Jeff. It’s because Grayson focused on me. I was worthy of his attention. And now? Now I want him to do it again.

But first, I need to call Bobbie.

I head quickly to my office, shut the door, and do the slow slide down as I lean back against it. I FaceTime her. She doesn’t answer, crap, she’s at work. I send a text.

HOLY FUCKDOODLES! GRAYSON. FREAKING. CALHOUN. IS. MY. BOSS! YOU KNOW TIGER MASK AKA HOT DADDY IS MY FUCKIN BOSS!!!

…

I am not feeling a damn tactician now. I am feeling very much a dumb little deer.

Plot twist.

No kidding. And now I have to do a metrics report and have it ready by the end of business today so I can’t even duck out.

I get off at 7. Will show up with whiteboard, wine, and Winning for Dummies.

!!!