Inappropriate - Vi Keeland Page 0,5

great maternity leave policy the company had.

I’d filed a formal complaint about my salary with Human Resources and gotten equivalent pay. But there was no going back from what Harold Bickman considered treason on my part. We’d found a way to work together without too much friction—mostly by avoidance, though his email today proved once again what a colossal jerk he was. And something in my gut made me think he’d had a hand in the station getting ahold of that topless beach video. Lord knows the man wanted to give my job to Siren Eckert bad enough.

Side note, Siren is her real name, not her stage name. What were her parents thinking? Anyway…

Harold Bickman, a fifty-four-year-old, overweight, balding man who smelled like day-old cheese, wasn’t the brightest bulb in the bunch when it came to women. I bet he thought he had a chance with Siren—the twenty-four-year-old former Miss Seattle runner-up—just because she batted her eyelashes at him. I bet he also thought I would follow the directions in his email.

Dear Ms. Richardson,

In light of the unfortunate events and your recent departure from Broadcast Media, I have scheduled you to visit the office at 10 a.m. on Thursday, June 29th to collect your belongings. I trust you will conduct yourself professionally during your visit. As your employee identification and building card have been deactivated, you will need to check in at the security desk.

Regards,

H. Bickman

Seriously? I wanted to crawl through my laptop and strangle the man. It made me cringe to think that he might’ve viewed the “unfortunate events.” He probably jerked off while watching the twenty-two-second glimpse of topless women, right before walking over to Siren and offering her my job.

God, the one good thing about getting fired was that I’d finally get to tell that man what I thought about him on Thursday. Although, I wouldn’t put it past the wimp to be MIA when I came to “collect my belongings.”

I sighed and hit the trashcan icon to get rid of Harold once and for all. But just as I was about to close my laptop, I saw another new email waiting. This one from Grant Lexington. Curious, I immediately clicked to open.

Dear Ms. Richardson,

After further review of your file, I’ve determined the decision to terminate your employment was warranted. However, I’ll reach out to your immediate supervisor and suggest he provide you with a neutral letter of recommendation based on your performance.

Sincerely,

Grant Lexington

Great, just great—leave it up to Harold to give me something neutral. I probably should have shut my laptop and cooled off. But the last forty-eight hours had brought me to a boiling point. So I typed back, not bothering with the formality of a greeting or anything.

Great. Harold Bickman hates women almost as much as he hates foot tapping. Oh…unless he thinks he has a chance to bang you—like he does my replacement. Thanks for nothing.

***

Two days later, on Thursday morning, I was no less bitter when I arrived at the office. I was, however, almost forty-five minutes early since I had no idea how long it took to get to the office during rush-hour traffic. The roads were always empty when I left for work at four-thirty in the morning. Since I wouldn’t put it past Bickman not to allow me in early, I decided to go next door to the coffee shop. It would give me a chance to mentally prepare for cleaning out my desk, and dealing with him, too.

I ordered a decaf, since my nerves were shot already, and went to sit at a corner table. Whenever I was feeling stressed, I watched Instagram video clips from the Ellen show. They always cracked me up, and that, in turn, helped me relax. I clicked on a funny clip where Billie Eilish scared Melissa McCarthy, and I laughed out loud. Looking up from my phone when it ended, I was caught off guard to find a man standing next to me.

“Do you mind if I share your table?”

I looked him up and down. Tall, gorgeous, expensive suit…probably not a serial killer. Then again, my ex always had perfectly tailored suits, too.

I squinted. “Why?”

The man looked to his left and then his right. When his greenish gray eyes returned to meet mine, I thought I detected the slightest twitch at the left corner of his lip. “Because all of the other seats are taken.”

I surveyed the room. Oh. Shit. They were all taken now. Lifting my purse off the table, I