Boss of Me

Chapter Twelve

        Tightening my grip on my Gucci shoulder bag—the one designer item I could justify splurging on—I approach the automatic doors and square my shoulders.

        You can do this, Summer. Fake it till you make it.

        After my trip to Perth—then sitting around and twiddling my thumbs for another week—stepping into the air-conditioned lobby feels like coming home, like putting on a pair of track pants and fluffy socks after wearing a pencil skirt and heels all day. In other words, heavenly.

        Of course, it doesn't take me long to crash land back to earth.

        No one's reactivated my staff ID card yet, so after trying fruitlessly to get the elevator to take me up to the eleventh floor, I accept defeat and trudge my way over to the fire escape. Irritation needles at me as I scale an ungodly number of stairs. It's a good thing I skipped the gym this morning and allowed myself an extra ten minutes. I chose to spend an embarrassing amount of time perfecting my hair and makeup instead—not winning on that front. I don't need to take an impromptu selfie to know I'm a sweaty mess by the time I reach Elevated's exit door. I might've stopped putting in this level of effort when I was just Mr. Griffin's PA, but I figure if I'm going to have an office and a team of people to manage, I need to look the part.

        Slipping my heels back on, I brace myself against the wall and catch my breath.

        "Thanks for the warm welcome, guys," I mutter to myself, smoothing a hand down my tight-fitting wrap dress. "Couldn't even remember to reactivate my pass."

        Fleetingly, I wonder why Max's new PA isn't all over it, because that used to be my job—ensuring all the new hires got the red-carpet experience, no matter their status. I would've never let anyone trek up the emergency stairs, and he would've never let me live it down—talk about an OH&S risk. It may as well be Machu Picchu up here.

        When I exit the fire escape, greet Barb—the receptionist who's worked for Max for so long she's become part of the furniture—and enter the office, I get my answer.

        The desk I used to sit at is unoccupied. In fact, it's exactly how I left it. It doesn't take me long to realise he hasn't filled my old position.

        I frown.

        A few people stop their conversations to glance over at me, noticing my arrival, and an uncomfortable silence settles over the flexible workspace.

        I clear my throat, because I've drawn so many not-so-subtle stares, and this is my worst nightmare—one of the possibilities my brain obsessively broke down and tried to prepare for last night.

        "Hey, everyone." I muster a timid smile and do my best to ignore the swell of uncertainty that rises out of nowhere. Maybe coming back to Elevated was a mistake. Maybe this is something I just can't recover from (professionally).

       Another awkward thump of silence passes, and then Margo—one of Elevated's junior web designers—launches out of her swivel chair and rushes towards me. She's a blur of curly red hair, boundless energy, and spindly limbs. 

        "Oh my God," she exclaims, and I'm grateful at least someone appears happy to see me. Not that we were particularly close before—Margo and I have only had half a dozen conversations. "You're back! I can't believe it."

        "I'm back," I parrot. The words spill out of my mouth in a nervous, breathless tumble. I'm not sure what else to say.

        Prior to my resignation, I had work friends—people I discussed the weekend's antics with or gave sidelong glances in meetings that ran overtime—but no one I thought who'd be this excited about my return.