I laugh at her good-natured dismissal, knowing we both have work to do, and plant a kiss on her upturned cheek then give her a quick hug for good measure.
I love Sophia—she’s the sister I never had. We didn’t grow up together but became fast friends after once waiting in line next to each other at the cell phone store near my apartment.
She gives me another wave as I push through the coffee shop door. “I’ll see you later, weirdo. Text me.”
“See ya, sexy pants.”
I give my tail end a shake. “Byeee.”
It’s a short walk to the office, and I weave my way through the pedestrians on the sidewalk to save time. Punch the up button once I reach the elevator banks and wait patiently for the car to reach my floor once I’m standing inside.
My office—yeah, I’m a lady boss with her own office—is located at the far end of the hall (door closed because I shut it before evacuating for carbs and sugar), and I palm the doorknob with wet, sticky fingers I haven’t bothered to wash or lick clean.
It’s sunny, light blasting me from every direction. I take a seat and regroup, cracking my knuckles before powering up the desktop situated in the center of my desk. Unkink my neck. Wiggle my fingers as if I’m about to perform a magic trick.
The monitor comes on and I tilt my head to study the screen in front of me, frowning at the glowing image.
It’s from the creative department, and nothing about it is right, though I’ve given them directions twice already—very specific directions, down to the numbers on the color wheel so the shade is perfect. Down to the size I want the font.
I steeple my fingers, cheeks getting warm.
Take a few deep breaths and click open my email, find the last email exchanged with the art department, and click compose. Now, I’m not saying their refusal to take my suggestions is intentional, but it’s becoming habitual, and I have to wonder if it’s because of my age.
I’m young—one of the youngest ad executives in the company—but I earned this position the same way they did: hard work and the occasional long night.
Before graduating at the top of my class, I’d been taking college courses since my thirteenth birthday. By the time I graduated from high school, I was already a sophomore in college, and by the time I graduated from college, I had two degrees.
I’m a giant nerd.
The fact that my grandfather’s name is on the outside of the high-rise is neither here nor there. The fact that my last name is on billboards and in magazines shouldn’t be an issue.
Initially, no one was supposed to know. Technically, when I was hired, I used my mother’s maiden name à la Tori Spelling when she was trying out for that television show in the 90s a billion years ago. Not wanting to be hired because of nepotism, she used a stage name so producers wouldn’t know her father created the show.
Got the part.
Obviously.
I’m not lazy, and I’m not a snob. I earn my salary and bonuses like everyone else in this building. So what if my family owns it?
“Easy for you to say, asshole,” I grumble as I pound out a curt reply to the art department’s latest mockup of a billboard that will be plastered in Times Square. “You’re the one who was born with a silver spoon in her mouth, and they hate you because of it.”
Don’t choke on it.
I have no desire to kiss anyone’s ass because I was born into a family who owns a business, but I am wary of their reaction to it. That, plus my age.
I’m twenty-four. Most of them think I’m way too young to be in this position, and sometimes, they might be correct. But I stay off social media, I don’t post anything on Instagram, and I don’t twitter. Or tweet. Or whatever you want to call it.
The last thing I need is someone from work following me and seeing the stupid shit I get up to on the weekends. Well, me and Duchess Desdemona, my amazing cat.
Grabbing my phone, I thumb through my music and open a moody playlist. I must be hormonal. There is no rational reason this mockup should make me emotional. It’s just a stupid graphic sent up by an artist who thinks she’s right.
Bambi Warner always thinks she’s right.
Unfortunately, the Times Square account is mine, and the