It’s amazing. The power of two little words.

Like “Fuck me,” uttered by a guy you’re hot for. Or “Do it,” from someone who has power over you. Or even “Trust me,” from someone you want to believe in, even though you shouldn’t.

In my case, the two little words were: “You’re fired.”

I hear you. You’re saying, “Charlie, that’s three words with a contraction.”

I’ll forgive you for thinking that. I won’t forgive grammar. Fuck grammar. Grammar didn’t just get fired.

I did.

My chest tightened, the knot twisting and building on itself until it stretched my ribs.

“What did you say?” The usual I don’t give a shit was missing from my voice.

The man in front of me shifted in his chair, a look of dark satisfaction on his hard face.

“You’re fired. You have twelve hours to put my files in order and pack up your things. Take so much as a stapler and HR will tackle you on the sidewalk.”

They say your life slows down before you die.

Well, it’s true. You think stupid things, too. Things like he’s too pretty to be such a dick.

Whoever did the creating shouldn’t have wasted that hard jaw. The full mouth. The blue eyes.

I couldn’t be fired.

Except it was happening.

I was the one person around here who saw everything coming. I could tell who’d hook up at Throwdown Thursday after work. Who’d crush their business development targets. Who was in line for a promotion…

I hadn’t seen this.

It was cruel. And unjust. And complete and utter bullshit.

There was no way I could’ve seen it coming.

Right?

* * *

“Aren’t you hot enough to melt an igloo?”

The man wiped the sweat from his brow, wincing in his polyester pants and company shirt. “It’s ninety-two.”

“Degrees?”

“Dollars. And fifty cents.”

The heat wave had been going on for weeks with no sign of breaking.

I reached for my pocket, realizing my painted-on skirt didn’t have any. “How’s eighty?”

“You new around here? This isn’t a negotiation. We’re a printing company.”

I fished in my bag for my wallet and slapped the bills plus two quarters into his hand. This guy must be new. Fred always negotiated.

“You want the Alliance corporate discount but you’re not paying on account?”

I smiled, and the suspicion on his face fell away. “This is private business. Top secret.”

“Right. Have a good day, Miss…” he glanced at the invoice “…Svethauss.”

“It’s pronounced Sweetass.”

First rule of survival: Never give your real name.

He disappeared out the doors, but all my attention was on the white cardboard box. I felt like Indiana Jones lifting the lid of the Ark. The sensation started at my toes, crept up my legs, and slid over my stomach, my chest, my breasts.

Traffic flowed around me as suits made a beeline for the elevators or cafeteria. My attention was on the cardboard.

I pulled back the lid, an inch at a time, and peered inside.

Oh, baby. That’s what I’m talking about.

I’d started to sweat from the heat ebbing in through the doors at the front of the building. Wiping back a spot where my hair had started sticking behind my ear, I put the lid back on the box and shifted it onto the dolly I’d brought from eight. My Ferragamo sandals clicked on the marble floors.

Walking in these was an art I’d perfected at an early age. Unfortunately, there’s a difference between art and science. Pushing my prize toward the elevators, I caught one of my new spike heels where the marble met the carpet and yanked it off.

For a building housing a financial institution, we were cheap as hell at keeping up with maintenance. Our CEO, Hollister, was a “form over function” guy. Waterfall in the lobby, surrounded by three wood-looking pods? Necessary. Carpet that stays stuck to the ground? Meh.

We’re a bank. Not Google.

I bent to inspect the cap that’d popped off the strappy purple heels.

“Do you need a hand?”

The woman looking down at me was half my size. Judging from her pressed outfit, she was, in fact, a grown-up. However, if she’d had pigtails, I would’ve thought she was an escapee from a Broadway production of Annie.

“With my shoe?”

“With your box.” She motioned toward the dolly.

“Sure,” I said, even though I didn’t. “You work at Alliance?”

“Started this morning. I’m a temp.” Her voice was quiet but her bright eyes said she was sweet under the nerves. She stuck out a tiny hand with short, tidy nails. “Rose.”

“Charlie. Don’t call me Charlotte or you’ll regret it. What?” I went on as she stared.

“You look like one of those YouTube girls with her own make-up channel. Or the clackers from Devil Wears Prada.”

My grams liked to say there were two good things I’d got from my mom. The mane of blond hair that couldn’t decide if it wanted to wave or curl, and long legs that made any skirt look about as wide as a hair elastic.

There was a corporate dress code in this place that was not written anywhere. But I kept thinking if I snuck up on the right person, I’d catch them reading Sensible Heels Weekly.

Nothing in my closet was sensible.

Today what’d made it onto my body while I’d groped for coffee like a bat in the sun was a black pencil skirt with a slit up the back long enough to make my neighbor blush. A coral silk sleeveless blouse that skimmed over my boobs.

Plus my Ferragamos.

Senseless victims of some cheap-ass nylon masquerading as industrial berber.

I surveyed New Girl. She was sweet and earnest and I should’ve been hightailing it the other way. But something had me asking, “Who do you work for?” like I cared.

“Armand Banks. He’s a director on eight, and—”

My phone rang and I answered without looking. “Charlie.”

“Strange,” a masculine voice replied immediately. “Charlotte is also the name of my assistant, but she’s nowhere to be found. Certainly not proofreading the slides I sent thirty minutes ago.”

I leaned an elbow on the back of the cart. “I’m working on it as we speak.” It was already done. Telling him that would be too easy, though.

“You sound out of breath.”

“I’m working really hard.” I wedged the phone between my shoulder and my ear, bending to pull of one shoe, then the other. I set them on top of the box and straightened.

“You’re going to be late for the department meeting.”

He clicked off without waiting for a response. I tucked my phone back into my bag.

The Alliance building was full of mid-day traffic that had the new conservative down—suits, pantyhose, black shoes, gelled hair—and cell phones attached to their heads.

“How long have you worked here?” New Girl ventured as she followed me to the elevator, scooting ahead to hold the door for me.

“A while.”

“So you know the old CEO? I heard he might go to jail for fraud.” I lifted a shoulder but she kept talking. “Guess it’s not the best time to work here, but it’s always been my dream to work at a bank. It’s such an important industry, you know? Traditional. Respected. I mean, you get to look after people’s money. Their future. What higher calling is there than that?”

We had the elevator to ourselves, so I swiveled to face her. The fact that I was in bare feet and she had heels on brought our eyes nearly level.

“Hollister—“ I referred to our former leader “—fell for a set of plastic tits that just happened to work for another financial institution. He leaked confidential information on some of our biggest clients.” Her tidy brows shot up. “If there’s one thing that competes with money? It’s ass.”

Her gaze dropped to the box. “What’s in there?”

I stroked the top of the box, a smile pulling at my mouth. “Karma.” Her curious expression had me going on. “Working for these uptight Type-A’s is like parenting. Give them what they want, we all descend into chaos. Give them what they need—to be reminded they are not the center of the universe—the world keeps turning.”

“And what do you get out of it?”

I glanced down at the top of the box, the tingling starting again. “An unparalleled sense of joy and inner peace.”

My floor had been renovated the second year I was here. The long hallway from the elevator was lined with offices, most with glass walls.

I blinked at the ray of sun that streamed in the new skylights. Our floor was the top, save for the exec tower that was three more stories on one-half of the building. Someone’s great idea was to put windows in the roof.

Windows that now leaked, as evidenced by the fact that the carpet outside my cubicle made squishy noises when you stepped on it.

I winced as my bare foot hit a wet patch. Great. This morning’s runoff was now wedged around last week’s pedicure.

Rose followed me into my cubicle. “You’re the first person here who’s been nice to me. I don’t think my boss even knows my name. The last place I worked I had a mentor. You know, someone to show me how things worked.” She bit her lip and I cringed.

No, no, fuck no.

“Can I come to you? You know, if I need help with things?” Her fresh face tilted up to me, a painfully earnest expression on it.

That’s what you get for being nice.

I started to say no. I swear I did.

What came out was, “Yeah. Sure.”

But when her worried face dissolved into relief, I couldn’t take it back.

“New Girl, shit’s about to get real. Can I trust you?”

Her eyes widened. “Of course.”

“I have something to help you through the rough patches.” I glanced around before lifting the lid of the box. Then pulled out the top of the stack.

“Banker Babes calendar?” She started flipping through the pages of half-naked guys.

“It’s a little project I organize every year.”

“It’s June.”

“Yeah, but they sold so well last year I wanted to get a head start. It includes an extra page for September to December. Back to school and all.”

I looked over her shoulder at the pages, one after the other. All of them attractive. Many of them shirtless.

“Wow. These guys work here?”

“Mhmm.”

“They volunteered to be in this.”

I made a noncommittal noise as I opened the bottom drawer of my desk and fished out a pair of white Fendi pumps with gold studs. My feet slipped into them easily.

“They’re too busy obsessing over whether they made new business targets this quarter to worry about our little…projects.”

She stopped on July.

“Holy hot on a stick. Is that man even real?”

I peered over her shoulder at the guy wearing only swim trunks and a hot as hell grin.

“Sadly, yes.” I carefully moved the box under my desk.

Rose’s wide eyes lifted to my face. “Who are you?”

“I told you. I’m Charlie. And we’re late.”