Page 5 of Forget Me

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MIMI

We were meetingat one of those fancy hipster places where the coffee was fair-trade and organic and the treats—if you could call them that—were low-carb and keto-friendly. A place that appealed to Larissa, who ate practically nothing and never missed a spin class. She belonged to the same class as our donors, always put together, never a blond hair out of place.

I wished I were like her.

But today, I was exactly the opposite. Sweaty, out of breath, and ten minutes late with no presentation to show them. Just my dead laptop in its soggy bag and an aching head full of figures.

I was sixty-three percent sure she’d fire me. Though could you fire someone from a volunteer position? Either way, she wouldn’t give me the praise I craved. Not that I deserved it.

The aroma of cinnamon and nutmeg from Christmas-spiced coffee made my stomach curdle. I swallowed. Puking in front of Jackson and Larissa and the other woman at their table would be the cherry on top of my disaster sundae.

I hurried over. “Sorry I’m late.”

Larissa didn’t have to say a word. The arch of her eyebrows and the flick of her straight, platinum-blond hair said it all. I remembered the last time I’d disappointed her, when I’d asked for more time to process an expense check because I was heads-down in month-end close for Synergy. She’d broken her typical sweet-as-honey front to say with steel in her tone,We’ve talked about this, Miriam. I need to be able to rely on you.

And I’d let her down again. This time, in front of her boss. The flat line of her pink lips hit me right in my squishy, people-pleasing center. My cheeks burned.

“Sit down, Miriam. Let’s begin,” she said coolly.

“Sorry,” I mumbled, letting my laptop bag slide off my shoulder. I didn’t even have a good excuse today. Nothing but a hangover and the mistake I’d made by letting Hurricane Mateo into my apartment.

“Don’t worry about it.” Jackson leaned back in his chair and stretched his long legs out under the table. He rolled his shoulders under his faded black Santana T-shirt. “I’m usually the late one. Feels good not to be the slacker for once. Let me introduce you to my sister, Natalie.”

Being called a slacker made my chest twinge. I put on a wobbly smile and stuck out my hand. “Miriam Levy-Walters. But everyone calls me Mimi.”

She stood, half a foot taller than me in her heels. She wore heels on a Sunday? Her long-sleeved magenta sheath dress showed off her slender figure. She was blond, unlike her dark-haired brother, and her golden hair coiled at her nape in an elegant bun. Their eyes were the same, though. Warm chocolate brown irises fringed with a bounty of dark lashes.

I wiped my sweaty hands on my jeans before shaking her hand. I wished I’d worn slacks instead. If I’d known Jackson’s socialite sister was joining us, I’d have put more thought into my meet-up-for-coffee-on-a-Sunday attire. And worn boots instead of ballet flats. I felt like Ant-Man standing next to her.

Natalie’s grip was comfortingly firm. “I’ve heard great things about you. I’m glad the finances are in good hands.” Her forehead creased, but then she smiled. The transition was so fast I wasn’t sure I’d seen her frown at all. “I’m looking forward to seeing the work you’ve done on the projections.”

The back of my neck itched. She wouldn’t be hearing great things about me today.

“Nat’s joining the team to help with the gala. Coffee?” Jackson shifted his feet as if he’d spring up and fetch it. A bazillionaire like Jackson Jones gettingmecoffee.

“No, thanks. Funny story…”

“In that case”—Larissa straightened her papers—“let’s get the numbers out of the way.”

Larissa was a paragon in the nonprofit world, having won an award for her previous nonprofit. But apparently, numbers were her weakness. I’d volunteered every week at Jackson’s brand-new foundation for neurodivergent kids ever since he started it, and one day, he’d introduced me to the new director, Larissa. He’d said she needed help to put together a balance sheet and, knowing I was an accountant at his for-profit company, asked me to help her.

Larissa needed a lot more than a balance sheet. Her bookkeeping was a disaster, but I’d organized it, and I was proud of what I’d done.

Well, except for today’s coffee catastrophe.

I swallowed. “I have some unfortunate news about the budget presentation. My laptop died, and the printouts got ruined.”

I couldn’t summon back my anger at Mateo. I was the fool who’d let him into my place to bumble around. Besides, if I hadn’t taken the papers out of my bag to admire them in an overflow of hubris, they might have been saved.

“Aren’t they on the server?” Jackson asked. “I can grab them. I’m logged into the VPN.”

I squeezed my eyes shut as heat flooded from my face to my neck. “No. I finished them up Friday night from home. I didn’t think to upload them.”

“You should have emailed them to me.” Larissa’s voice was sharp as a wasp’s sting. It wasn’t the first time she’d reminded me not to leave anything to chance. She never did. Well, except for those receipts.

I looked down at my shoe. I’d been burned before, and I’d been afraid Larissa might take credit for my work. But that was ridiculous. She might be autocratic and a slovenly record-keeper, but she was no thief. Not like Byron. If I’d sent the presentation to her, at least we’d have something to show the Joneses.

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