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Overcommitted and Undersexed

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I flip through the stack of files three inches thick. All this, for me? Way to pile on in the last two weeks of my internship.

Even though I'm only making ten an hour, the Jenkins Corporation is treating me more like a junior public relations executive.

Groaning, I thumb through the files. I'll never get home in time to make dinner. And I'll totally be too tired to work on that newsletter for the community garden in my neighborhood. Why did I volunteer to do that?

I pick up my cell and angrily tap a number on speed dial.

"Sabrina? Hey. I'm going to be late. You're on your own for food. There's one of those microwave pizzas in the freezer, kay?" I cradle my cell between my ear and shoulder, opening the cover of one of the files while my sister talks in her melodic southern accent. That we're related sometimes baffles me. I have an accent as flat and dry as Nebraska.

"Yeah. Microwave only on medium. Four minutes. You good? And hey? No friends over tonight. You need to study for finals."

Sabrina's high-pitched whine fills my ear. I don't have time for this tonight and I snap at her.

"I don't care if the biology exam's easy. Keep studying. Love you."

Boys worship her (which is a little adorable). Men love her (which is gross). Hell, she's even confided in me that she's experimented with girls. (That's fine with me, whatever makes her happy). She's too smart to screw up her life with an unplanned pregnancy or a starry-eyed elopement.

But I'm keeping a close eye on her, because the last two weeks of high school are all about parties and clubs and debauchery.

At least that's what I'd heard. Not like I indulged in any of that when I was seventeen.

It's my job to get her to graduation next week and to an elite science camp in Boston for the summer. She'd been accepted, had gotten a scholarship for seventy-five percent of the cost, and I'm determined to scrape up the rest. Maybe I'll take on an additional shift at the bar...

I don't even want to think about college in the fall. That's what loans are for. God knows I have enough of them. I might have to defer them for the rest of my life, but at least I have a degree.

Scanning the first page of the file, I spot the note left by Josephine, my boss.

Proofread this marketing plan for spelling errors and then bring this entire file to Alex's office. Right away.

The last two words are underlined, twice.

I frown and flip the note over, hoping for more instructions. Alex's office? The CEO? Me? I'm an intern. Interns don't casually drop off reports for the CEO.

I grab the phone again. This isn't normal.

"Josephine? Hey. It's Evie. Sorry to bother you. Can you hear me?"

There's clicking and a fuzzy response. Dammit, she must be on the MARTA, headed home to Sandy Springs. The line goes dead. I text her instead.

You want me to bring this file to Alex's office? Do you mean Alex Jenkins?

I rifle quickly through the file, waiting for a text, not spotting any errors. It's such an unusual request from Josephine, who deals with him directly. The last thing I want is to bust into the CEO's office after hours. He's probably got cameras on every corner of the floor. Or he's actually in his office.

Just the thought makes me shiver.

Dale Alexander Jenkins, the company's president, isn't around much. Usually he's traveling the globe, running one part of the company or another. Jenkins Corporation owns the world's largest tire manufacturer. That was started by Alex' father, according to company literature.

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