by Leigh, Ember
Tamara looks disgusted now. “Ugh. You’ve changed.”
“Maybe you’re right. I’ve changed so much that I don’t want your shitty in with WeGo or this stupid power dynamic or even my fucking job.” I pause, quivering on the brink of my next words until I feel that shove from within. “I quit. I’m done here. Good job driving away all the talent.”
I turn on my heel and storm out of her office, the adrenaline vibrating so hard inside me, I feel like I could scream or puke or both at the same time. I can barely see as I weave through the halls back toward the developers’ unit.
I stop at my direct boss’s office to tell him the bad news, and with the way he watches me with wide eyes and parted lips, I probably look a little crazed.
But I’m over this. I’ve been unhappy for too long, waiting for some dream opportunity to materialize without putting in any of the work for it. And really, I credit Kinsley for this. Ever since I met her, the status quo doesn’t feel right.
Maybe a month ago, I would have complied with Tamara and waited as long as she could string me along for the dream job that never was.
But now, with Kinsley’s mark in my life? I’m sick of the underhanded shit, of the pandering, of the using. Kinsley’s words come back to me, jarring and brash in my skull like they have been since she spat them at me on Saturday night.
You used me like my Mom warned me about, she said. And she’s not wrong. I fucking used her. It seemed innocent, until it wasn’t. Until I roped her into this bullshit. Until she lost her job.
I pack up my desk and do the same walk out of E-bid that Kinsley must have made earlier that day. I would go straight to her house and jump on her bed like Tom Cruise on Oprah’s couch, except I doubt she’d even let me in.
Besides, I’ve got some shit to figure out.
The high lasts for about three days. That’s how long I feel invincible and destined to find my next dream job on my own.
Except the job hunt reveals a lot of the same old shit. Same job, different place, slightly different number on my check. And while I imagine continuing my career in every company ranging from Yahoo! to Uber, one question throbs inside me: Is this really what I want to do?
So I pivot. I hit up coworking spaces in the early morning and drink coffee next to my laptop and watch all the different entrepreneurs around me. Days melt away between networking and note-taking.
Soon, all the ideas that had idly occurred to me over the past few weeks and months are now clamoring for attention. I make a list of no fewer than ten potential start-up ideas. All of them involve what I do best—software engineering—but with a twist.
Now that E-bid doesn’t dictate my days, I adjust to the rhythm of the coworking space. I shell out my weekly desk rental fee, adopt the other attendees as my colleagues, and shoot the shit at the water cooler.
I’ve been keeping my eye on a few industries over the years, so it’s not like I don’t have at least some idea of viable options for the future. But with the people I meet at my adopted office, I get the names of others who can help me.
The investors who might want to invest in a tech start-up.
The strategists who know how to whip up a business plan for software engineers turned entrepreneurs.
The local non-profits available to help steer people like me in the right direction.
I take my time. Do my research. And make sure I know as much as possible about this leap, now that I’ve found myself mid-air. It reminds me a little of Grayson back home, who dove headfirst into home renovations only to find out that he loved it. My hours of combing the internet for start-up strategies are the equivalent to his YouTube searches for how to deal with moldy basement tiles.
I’ve got savings that will ride me out for about a year, if I live frugally.
And thanks to Kinsley, I’ve got an idea for a new company that could change everything.
Chapter 31
KINSLEY
The first few weeks adrift in unemployment are so wild and unstructured that I feel like I’m living in a music video.
I am, partially, because I’ve been repeating the same sappy love song over and over while I recover from Connor. The ice cream I ate one morning for breakfast was just an experiment, though, and had nothing to do with a broken heart. Turns out, no ice cream before noon is a general rule I can get behind.
The sudden freedom is titillating. One Monday, I read the entire day and only leave bed for bathroom breaks. The next day, I spend at the library. The following day, I have a series of phone dates with all my best friends from school to catch them up on the goings-on.
And amidst all of this, I’m running my mega-HR social media group, which has officially passed the 5K membership mark.
I’m no dummy. I know I’m sitting on something that might really have a future. So I start throwing out ideas to the members. What do they want more of? What would they pay money for? What, for God’s sake, will help us look past the struggles of our bosses or colleagues and allow us to enjoy our jobs again?
I start a website, which includes a blog, and the articles start pouring out of me. All that reading I’ve been doing for the past twenty-five years is coming in handy, because it turns out I have lots to say and a particular way of saying it.
I pump out roughly an article a day over three weeks. Some of them are wild hits—like When To Call the HR Hotline Instead of Hiring a Hitman—and others are just so-so. But the feedback pushes me further. I put together an e-book based on my best-performing articles and slap the stupidly low price of ninety-nine cents on it.
I sell five hundred copies the first day. And several hundred more per day from there on out.
So many copies that I can cover rent for a month with my one-dollar wunderkind.
It’s a start, but it’s definitely not enough. I need a job, and my hunt has admittedly gotten pushed to the side while I’ve been diving headfirst into HR therapy land.
Each time I navigate to the job search engine, I wonder about Connor. He’s still blocked everywhere I can think of, but I sense that he’s trying to get ahold of me. It’s less Spidey senses and more common sense: he sent a postcard to my house of a cartoon sun. On the back, he simply wrote: To Sunny-kins. I miss the lemur jammies. Can we go back to 3500 Mhz?
I would have written back, but there’s no return address. Still, I save the postcard. It gives me hope, in a strange way. Deep down, I want to believe that Connor is capable of being the man I believed he was. But in my own best interest, I can’t believe that until he proves otherwise.
And I don’t plan on giving him that chance until I prove to myself I can make the best out of my life here in San Diego.
Once I hit six weeks AE (After E-bid—not like I’ve noted the timeline in my planner or anything), a notification from the job-focused social media site, ConnectMe, pings on my laptop. I get notifications every so often from headhunters in my area who think I’m a great fit for their entry-level job du jour. I’m not expecting much, but I look into it.
The headline reads: Tech Start-Up Seeking Talented HR Wizard.
I smile, clicking into the message. A wizard. That sounds like it’s up my alley. The start-up needs an HR head honcho and project manager. Some sort of creative wizard who can both handle responsibilities and go with the flow of a burgeoning business.
The posting is convincing. I check out as much as I can about the start-up, but their website lands on a generic Welcome page without any further information. There’s no owner or director listed, and no reviews posted or even any products available yet.
Still. It’s intriguing. And it sounds a helluva lot better than diving back into the same world as corporate E-bid.
I take a day to think about it, and then I respond to the hiring manager who reached out to me. Yes, I’d like an interview. They respond with a few suggested dates, and then we whittle down the times and locations. The interview is scheduled for that Wednesday at lunch at a trendy spot downtown.
Nervousn
ess multiplies as time marches toward my first official interview AE. I wear my best business casual outfit to the interview, which is a sleeveless blouse with palm trees printed on it paired with high-waisted black slacks. If they’re looking for a wizard, I’m sure the palm tree theme will help.
I arrive ten minutes early at La Solange, which is an outdoor café tucked behind wrought iron railings with a real live waterfall in the corner. It’s full of other professionals and creatives on their lunch break or meeting for business. I don’t have any idea who I’m looking for, other than I should ask the receptionist for a table reserved under the name WIZARD.
The receptionist smiles sweetly at me as she gathers up menus and leads me through the dense swath of tables and high-backed chairs. As I weave behind her, there’s one head in particular I notice and can’t look away from.
A man with sandy blond hair and broad shoulders that swell beneath the lines of his linen shirt. When he swings his head, an ice blue gaze meets mine for the briefest of moments.
And that’s when I realize. Connor is here.
Of all the freaking places in the world.
He’s at La Solange, laughing and acting casual in a business luncheon, while I am unemployed and skulking past in a palm-tree shirt.
My whole body goes rigid, and I struggle to keep my attention on the hostess as she leads me to my destination. When she pushes a menu into my hand, I slide onto the stool with a knot in my throat.
The past six weeks have not done as much as I’d hoped in the whole Getting Over Connor Department.
I peer over the top of my menu, eager to continue watching him secretly. He’s halfway across the café, slightly facing me, looking even more handsome than I remember. And how is that fair? I thought memories were supposed to over-accentuate someone’s beauty. Not pale in comparison.
But that’s Connor Daly, I suppose, the dimpled surf boy who looks too damn good in a linen shirt and charcoal-gray slacks, both trendy and comfortably formal. His gaze swings toward me, which makes me gasp. I jerk the menu up to break our eye contact.
Because even though I’m desperate to drink in all things Connor, I can’t let him know I’m curious. I’m supposed to be staying away from him. If I don’t, we’re liable to end up in that waterfall over there, half naked and screwing for the world to see.
“Kinsley.”
His rough tenor makes me jolt so hard I drop the menu. He’s in front of me. Right here. Right now. More handsome than I remembered and more masculine than I could fathom. Leather and spice reach me, and my hands tremble as I grope for my discarded menu. He picks it up off the table before I can.
And without my barrier, I’m forced to look at him. Because this close, my eyes can’t do anything but find his. Those icy blue pools have ensnared me countless times. I steel myself, because one chance meeting with Connor does not mean I should be forgiving and forgetting.
But oh, when I get lost in his gaze, it’s the only thing on my mind. The man is restrained heat, his body a terrain I knew like a cartographer once upon a time. Still would know, if given the chance to test the map I’d made in my mind. I swallow a lump in my throat, and eons stretch between us as we gobble each other up. My fingers twitch as I resist the urge to run my hand over the arc of his bicep, which is stupidly visible through his shirt.
“You dropped this,” he finally says.
My eyes flutter shut. I don’t care what he says. I just want to hear more of his voice. Because I’ve been deprived without it. I’ve been starving myself by keeping him out of my life.
And then he speaks again, his easygoing features hardening into something that I’ve never seen on him before.
“Kinsley…I made a mistake.”
Chapter 32
CONNOR
My heart is pounding so hard that everything around me falls away. Except for Kinsley. Her strawberry blonde bob, the pink shimmer on her lips, the way her brows are drawn together in a look that says what the fuck? as much as it does kiss me.
Seeing her again throws everything out the window. I had my pitch planned out. The perfect opening line. The most gentleman-suave slide into the chair that had ever been seen.
But being here in front of her has reduced me to rubble. All I can do is drink her in.
She makes me forget that this is technically a business meeting.
“I can’t talk right now,” she finally says, her voice a low rasp. She looks past me, searching over my shoulder. “I’m waiting for someone.”
“An interview.”
She glares at me. “How do you know?”
I start my gentleman-suave slide into the chair, but it’s wobbly now, and I clutch at the table for support. “I’m your interview.”
She shakes her head, lips pursed. “Don’t mess around. I’m not in the mood.”
I gently set down the slim computer case I have in my hands, followed by the ribbon-wrapped box stacked on top. “I’m not messing around. I own the start-up that invited you here today. Co-own, actually. I’ve got a secret partner involved who hasn’t been made aware of her status yet.”
Her brows knit, and I realize that there is no elegant, pretty, or easy way of getting into all of this. I just need to start somewhere. Anywhere. I force myself to go on.
“The day you got fired was a wake-up call for me. I quit E-bid hours after Tamara let you go, because I knew that we both deserved more than we were getting. In all senses. So I’ve been making moves to create real success. No more depending on shitty people to come through when they feel it’s convenient. I wanted to create something for me. For us.”
She hardens at the use of that word. “You’re shitting me.”
I shake my head. I open my folders, pulling out the business plan for the start-up. This document is the result of all the blood, sweat, and tears at the coworking office. It’s a perfectly polished ten-page document that exactly outlines what I’m gunning for.
“The company is Wizard Initiatives. It came up organically after I left E-bid. It’s a tech solutions umbrella, which will house the various apps that are included in the ten-year plan. First and foremost being your brainchild”—I tap on the page she’s peering at, which details the Risk Wizard—“the app that analyzes which risk realistically seems like the best one to take.”
Kinsley drops the papers, looking up at me with an expression so raw, I am almost moved to tears. “Shut up.”
“I don’t want you to think that I’m using you for your ideas. Like I said in Bayshore, I took it as a challenge. But I’m giving credit where credit is due.” I flip the plan to another page, where it outlines the copyright info. “You can see here, I’ve got you down as co-creator and partner. So, I mean, the job is yours if you want it. It made sense to me that you would handle the HR aspect, since that’s your jam. But we can tweak those duties as you see fit.”
Kinsley is watching me with watery eyes. She doesn’t speak for a long time. When she finally does, her voice comes out a squeak. “What’s in that box?”
“Our favorite tiny cakes.” I push it toward her slightly. “I told you I would find out who made them. This is our special batch.”
She scowls. “Are you serious?”
“I’ve never been more serious about anything in my life.” I reach for her hands, because I can’t not touch her right now. She doesn’t pull away, and her small hands are engulfed in my grip. She’s not wearing nail polish, which is typical, but suddenly I’m so curious to know about her toenails that I almost lose my train of thought.
“I want you in this, Kins,” I say, squeezing her hands. “This way, we can carve out our own path together. There’s nobody else I would rather have at my side. Every single thing Tamara slammed you for? Those are the qualities that I want. Because I want you.”
Kinsley sniffs, blinking rapidly. “Oh my God.”
“Please forgive me,” I barrel on. The words need to come out before too much time goes by without her knowing how much I need her in my life. “I
want another chance with you. And this time, I’m not going to fuck it up. You’ll never doubt that you’re the only one for me. And I mean that. I fell fast and hard for you, Kins. But I didn’t realize that it meant forever until I tried to walk away from you.”
The dampness in her eyes has spilled over now into full-fledged tears, which roll down her cheeks. Her emotion sparks my own tight chest and lumpy throat. Because everything that has happened since meeting her proves that I was wrong. Tamara and her link to WeGo wasn’t the unexpected person I was looking for. Kinsley was. Along with the way she disrupted my life, my outlook, and my future.
I clear my throat as if it might help release its vice grip. “I’m overwhelming you, aren’t I?”
“No, no. Not at all.” She laughs, then dislodges her hand to swipe at one of her eyes. A tear has spilled. “I totally expected you to show up at my job interview and present me with a ready-made dream business and a sentimental confession. Not overwhelming at all.”
“I’ve gotten a head start on the coding,” I say, biting back a grin. “I can put your situation into the app first thing to see what it says about this.”
“Oh,” she shoots back. “My ex-fake lover signing me onto a business based on my offhand remark two months ago? I think it’ll come back with a fifty-fifty split between ‘run away’ and ‘100 percent yes.’”
I laugh, squeezing her hands again. “So what’s it gonna be?”