Page 20 of The Billionaire's Wake-up-call Girl

“Don’t even.” I go to the window and watch a squirrel sneak into the dumpster six stories below. We call it ourconundrum window because the dumpster really stinks in the summer. But if you keep it closed, it gets really hot in the place. “Nobody’s prostituting themselves.”

“Let me at least take you out for breakfast,” she says. “We’ll get hash browns with hollandaise sauce and eggs on top. And mimosas.”

Our favorite naughty breakfast. I wrap my arms around myself, picturing the gun in that guy’s hand. “Why? Because I’ll be sleeping with the fishes soon?”

“Seriously. Come on.”

“No, I’m going in to work,” I say. “I’m not fired yet. Maybe if I explained.”

She winces. She’s heard the Sasha stories.

“What if I explained to Mr. Drummond?”

“Are you joking?”

“I could make it into a funny story maybe.”

“It doesn’t sound like Mr. Drummond has much of a sense of humor,” she says.

“Trust me, he doesn’t.”

“Tell him it was your roomie,” Mia says. “Blame it on me. It’s not like he can fire me.”

“It wouldn’t work. He wouldn’t care. No, I’ll just tell the truth. I’ll say we were messing around. Surely there have been times in his life when he’s messed around.”

“We were demonstrating to each other whatnotto say,” she adds.

“Dude, he’s a millionaire chemist. I doubt he’ll go for an explanation like that.”

“Well, bottom line, we’re in this together.” Mia holds out her pinky. I pinky-shake her.

Seven

Lizzie

I thinkup different speeches I could give Mr. Drummond as I walk down Ninth Avenue in my shapeless prairie dress. I run through different angles as I wait for the train with the other morning commuters. I rehearse in my head while I ride the crowded car.

By the time I’m emerging on Lexington Ave., I have a funny and perfectly polished anecdote. A comedy of errors, if you will, where I’m being silly with my friend. I play up my utter shock that the call was live. I then go into my determination to make up for it, to work harder than ever on my projects, suggesting my mistake is a win for Vossameer.

If nothing else, Mr. Drummond seems obsessed with efficiency. Silly to fire me now in the midst of important projects.

It’s for sure Mr. Drummond that I’ll approach. Sasha would fire me in an instant, no matter how compelling I made it.

Walking in the entrance of the bunker-like Vossameer tower, I’m feeling hopeful about my chance to save my job. Save my bonus. Save my kneecaps.

I just have to get to Mr. Drummond first—before he tells Sasha what happened. It will be our little secret. Me and Mr. Drummond.

A weird little thrill goes through me at the thought.

I say hi to Marley, the security guard, and get into the elevator with a group of overworked, underappreciated Vossameer employees with their gray lanyards around their necks and their grim, driven dispositions. The elevator door closes and we ride silently, reflected as indistinct gray blobs in the elevator door, like a giant mood ring for employee morale.

I get out on the third floor twenty minutes early, heart nearly banging out of my chest. This is the moment of truth; if Sasha wants to talk to me right away, it means Mr. Drummond got to her.

I hold my breath as I pass by Sasha’s desk. Her nose is in her computer screen.

“Good morning,” I chirp.

She looks up and nods. “Morning.” She returns to what she was doing.

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