He leaned back in his chair. "Says who?"
"Everyone." At the memory of what I'd just witnessed, I wanted to scream in outrage. Lloyd hadn’t merely been fired. He’d been hustled out by security, Santa bag and all. "And besides, you weren't due back until Monday."
I should know.I was Cole Henster's executive assistant – the one who answered his work phone and kept his schedule. I sat at a desk just outside his office, where over the past two weeks, I'd had a front-row seat to all kinds of cruelty, mostly to former employees.
I say former because way too many of them were now gone, whether because they'd quit in protest or because they'd been outright fired like Lloyd Grampkin – a guy who, until two weeks ago, had actually run the company.
This office used to behisuntil he'd been shuffled off to a basement cubicle like some entry-level lackey instead of what he was – the guy whose grandfather had founded Winterville Chocolates over seven decades ago.
In front of me, Mister Henster – aka "the Monster" as I liked to call him – gave me a long, chilly look as he took in my green Santa hat and matching green dress with its shiny black belt and festive red trim.
The dress was short but hardly obscene. Like a good little elf, I’d added thick candy cane leggings and ditched the high heels in favor of flat green elf shoes, the kind that curled up at the toes.
Under his silent scrutiny, I felt color rise to my cheeks. EvenIrealized that I looked slightly ridiculous, especiallynowwhen some might say it was a tad early to break out the eggnog.
But hey, it was a company tradition – one that had started long before this guy had shown up.
He steepled his fingers. "Go on."
Go on with what?My gaze bounced around his office before returning to his hands. His fingers were long, straight, andverylimber, judging from the way he twirled his pen sometimes while he was thinking.
Whenever this happened, it always gotmethinking, too, but never about business.
I stammered, "I just mean…you were supposed be in Grand Rapids. You know. For that all-day meeting?"
He frowned. "Andyouwere supposed to be working."
My jaw dropped. "And I wasn't?"
It just went to show how clueless the guy was. I'd been employed at Winterville for over three years now, and part of my job was to help organize these holiday events. It was a lot of work, for me in particular.
Yes, we called it a party, but it wasn'tallfun and games. Sure, we had contests and prizes along with Christmas music, catered hors d'oeuvres and cookies galore, but we also had team-building workshops, motivational speakers, and updates on our company's progress.
The event was like a big Christmas train, loaded up with children and toys and maybe a few reindeer, too. Once it got going, it had lots of momentum, which meant that it couldn't be stopped on a dime just because the company had come under new ownership.
And besides, it's not like my new boss hadtriedto stop it. If he had, I would've known, just like I knew that he liked his coffee black, his phone answered promptly, and his office several degrees colder than was necessary.
He said, "You tellme."
Oh, I'd tell him, alright."For your information, Iwasworking."
His mouth tightened. "Not on whatIgave you."
I felt my own mouth tighten in response. "Excuse me?"
"The regional sales report. You were supposed to compile it. Did you?"
"No. But only because I didn’t have all the pieces."
This was true.After all, I wasn'twritingthe report. I was only compiling it. I couldn’t compile what I didn't have. Of the five regional managers, only two had provided the necessary data.
Looking decidedly unimpressed, he asked, "Did you follow up?"
"With who?"
Through gritted teeth, he replied, "With the owners of the 'missing pieces.'"
I bit my lip.See, here's the thing.Here at Winterville Chocolates, we had a certain culture – one that had served the company just fine for seven decades – or so I'd heard.
