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That day, I hiked hard and fast, more than twenty miles without stopping once. It would have been impossible for her to catch up even without carrying that gigantic backpack.
As if she would have chased after me in the first place.
I was tempted many times to turn back and look, but I forced myself to continue.
Left foot. Right foot. Keep moving forward.
Until I was far enough. Completely numb.
And yet, a week later, she stubbornly refused to leave my head.
As if she was living there rent free.
And the next thing I know, she shows up at my company as the new PR hire. As if I fucking manifested her.
A knock precedes Cade slipping into my office, his eyebrows raised.
“Dude, did that social media chick run over your dog or something? You bit her head off for no reason.”
I drag a hand through my hair in agitation.
“She deserved every bit of it. Traipses into my meeting in that tiny little skirt threatening to turn us into some GenZ fan account! Starts spouting off nonsense about TikTok without any business credentials.”
Cade raises an eyebrow and smirks. “That was indeed a small skirt.”
I scoff, throwing myself into the seat across from him. “An influencer will now tell us how to run a tech conglomerate. We might as well turn ourselves into her personal fan account!”
Cade crosses his arms, entirely unaffected by my heated tone. We served in enough hot spots together for my temper tantrums not to faze him.
“Look, her suggestions weren’t stupid, Jack. Maybe going full TikTok isn’t the answer, but the girl has a point about digital engagement. She probably has her finger on the pulse of what's trending better than us. And her insights might come in handy with our project.”
Cade levels me with a knowing look before continuing.
“But this isn't about protecting the company, is it? Was it that she challenged you, or was it the skirt that did it?” He snorts a laugh.
I give him a warning look. But he’s not too far off the mark. Dear old Dad will keel over at the first meme posted about Whitmore Tech. Yet I need him in his best mood until I find a partner and investor to produce Whitmore’s new virtual reality software.
To make things worse, seeing those sun-kissed legs in four-inch heels every day will do nothing for my peace of mind.
Sighing, I unclench the white-knuckled grip on my desk. As much as I hate to admit it, Cade is right.
Was it Albert Einstein who said that the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over again and expecting different results?
I suppose we do need to dust off our tried and true methods and attempt something new.
“Who hired her, anyway? She’s a kid, for Pete’s sake.”
Cade sighs. “Look, her background could be an asset. Marketing saw something in her. Give her a chance, brother,” he says with a shrug.
I barely have time to start up my computer and think of a response, when the looming figure of my father appears in the doorway.
Walt Whitmore: self-made billionaire, tech genius. The man built this company from nothing while single-handedly raising me after Mom passed. Now at sixty-five, his tall frame remains imposing and muscular under his tailored suit, his dark hair shot only slightly with gray.
As if on cue, Cade rises and shakes his hand, standing at his eye level. “Mr. Whitmore, so good to see you. He’s all yours. I was just leaving.” He gives me a side look and a nod before closing the door behind him.
As always, my father’s green eyes that mirror my own bear straight through my skin and size up my soul. I straighten my shoulders instinctively, then feel ridiculous for still snapping to attention for the old man's inspection.
“I heard about the little PR pixie shaking things up in the morning meeting,” Dad announces without preamble.
