“Act pretty?” He pulls a face. “What does that even mean?”
“Nothing. It’s just something my mother says.” Every freaking day. “The point is, I’m working on it. Asserting myself, I mean.”
“Good. Feel free to practice on me.” He grins and taps a finger on the table. “And let me know if you need any pointers.”
Oh, God. Could this be more awkward?
“Thanks. Can we go back to the part where you were explaining how you got where you are today?”
PreferablybeforeI die of embarrassment.
“Triada is a business, not a social club. I’m not there to make friends. I’m there to make history by building something bigger than myself.”
It might be the most honest thing he’s ever said to me, and it’s clear from the hard set of his jaw that he’ll do whatever it takes to reach his goal.
“The two aren’t mutually exclusive.” I respect his drive—after all, what’s life without purpose?—but it doesn’t have to be an either/or thing. He just has to want to change, to show up differently. And maybe some tiny part of him does want that, because why else would he be here? We both know I don’t need him holding my hand to choose photo booth backdrops or plan a kick-ass menu. “You can make friends—or, at least, be a strong leader—and make history.”
“I have enough friends.”
I seriously doubt that, but I’m not about to argue. Not when it feels like we’re on the cusp of actual progress.
“Fine. Forget I said anything about friends.” I wave a dismissive hand and lean in, ready to make my pitch.
Our arms brush and a jolt of electricity sparks between us. For a second, I forget all about my proposal, losing myself in the gold-flecked depths of his eyes. He really does have nice eyes when he’s not glaring.
Nick clears his throat, shattering the spell.
Quit staring like a creeper!
Right. “You said yourself there’s a morale problem. The best way to confirm the issues, scientifically speaking, is to do a survey.”
He opens his mouth, probably to shoot the idea down, so I press on, not giving him the chance.
“We could do before and after surveys on overall employee satisfaction. It would be a great benchmark for employee engagement and retention. And it would help you determine what areas need the most immediate attention,” I add, giving him a meaningful look. “As opposed to relying on office gossip and watercooler conversations.”
He sighs and rakes a hand through his hair. “But I so enjoy eavesdropping.”
“I’ll bet.” I roll my eyes. “Trust me. A survey will be far more reliable, and it’ll give you actionable results you can use to build a corrective action plan.”
“A corrective action plan, huh?” He looks me over appraisingly, brow furrowed. “Remind me again what you’re studying?”
“I have a bachelor’s in psychology,” I say, unable to keep the pride from my voice. “And I’m getting my master’s in industrial and organizational psychology.”
“Damn.” He shakes his head, chuckling under his breath. “That’s what I get for assuming you were an MBA student.”
I flash him a cheeky smile. “You know what they say about assuming.”
“Fair enough. But there’s still one thing I don’t understand.”
“Just the one?”
Because, come on, I can’t be the only one with a billion unanswered questions.
“Why were you working at the coffee cart if you’ve got a bachelor’s in psychology? Why not work in a clinic or something?”
It’s a good question. The coffee cart wasn’t exactly glamorous, and while it required excellent customer service skills and a mountain of patience, it wasn’t what you’d call mentally taxing.
“There aren’t a lot of job opportunities for psych majors with a four-year degree and no real-world experience.” I shrug. “I always knew I’d need an advanced degree, and in the meantime, the coffee cart worked well with my class schedule and left me plenty of time to study.” A smile tugs at the corner of my mouth. “My manager didn’t expect me to stay late to write up notes for him.”
