Page 2 of Falling Slowly
I already hated those apps. I wanted Bess. She worked harder than anyone I knew. She didn’t deserve this. But if I argued back, Dad would only dig in his heels. I needed evidence. Ideas. Something to wow everyone.
Dad tapped on the brochure. “I asked Rhonda to make a reservation so check the details with her. It kicks off Monday morning.”
The chair screeched as he stood up and kicked it back in its place. As the glass door rattled behind him, I picked up the brochure, mindlessly browsing its content.
…the latest brainstorming techniques…
…varied art practice…
…rest and recuperation…
…brain-boosting superfoods…
At that moment, I looked up and saw Bess walking past my glass door. She looked rosy-cheeked, like she’d been outdoors, probably running an errand with the printers, judging by the large folder she carried. Flaming red hair brushed her shoulders as she marched ahead with determination.
I didn’t know that much about her but I couldn’t help staring. There was something about her… I was already on my feet, thinking of something I could ask her, when my door swung open.
“What’s up, Buttercup?” Trevor bellowed, barging in. “George looks pissed off.”
My Scottish copywriter folded his tall, burly frame into one of my chairs and sighed heavily.
“Yeah. The Thriver campaign was a total bust. He’s sending me away to get better ideas. Talking about lay-offs.”
Trevor’s usually relaxed spine snapped half-way to attention.
“Not you,” I corrected. “Production staff.”
“Bess?” he asked.
I nodded, mindlessly moving about the pile of printouts covering my desk.
“Dang. If she’s fired, how’re you going to maintain your one-sided crush?”
I threw an empty Amazon box at him. He caught it in mid-air. “Shut up. She’s better than the whole production team put together. I don’t want to lose her.”
It was purely professional. I only stared at her ass because it was there, and perfect. Anyone would.
“Sure.” Trevor snickered, stroking his dark beard. “So, what are you going to do?”
I picked up the art retreat brochure again.
‘Rubie Ridge—Reach new heights of creativity!’ it shouted.
“I’ll think of something.”
And then, just like that, the answer landed in my lap. I recognized the sensation—the thrilling calm that washed over me when an idea started to form.
Chapter Two
Bess
When I spotted the white envelope on my keyboard, my stomach plummeted. A blank envelope holding a severance pay was George’s way of firing people. Hands-off and impersonal. But to me, this was personal. I couldn’t lose this job. I simply couldn’t.
I picked up the envelope without sitting down, steadying myself against the back of the office chair, which tried to traitorously roll away. I’d received no warning. I hadn’t received any feedback in weeks, other than the odd thumbs-up online. But I’d noticed the frowns, hushed conversation and muffled yells that carried across soundproof doors. Something was up, which was probably why a single envelope could induce such a chilling layer of cold sweat.
With shaking hands, I pried open the glue and pulled out a printout. When my gaze landed on a weekly schedule, relief flooded my veins.
An all-expenses-paid, 6-day retreat at Rubie Ridge.
