The Office Party
The Office Party
Whitney G.
Copyright © 2020 by Whitney G.
Kindle Edition
All rights reserved.
Cover design by Najla Qamber of Najla Qamber Designs.
Help from Indie Edit Guy
Help from Viviana Varona
No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without prior permission of the author.
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Synopsis
I can’t believe that I pulled my boss’s name for our company’s annual Secret Santa tradition …
As the devil incarnate, this infuriating, cocky bastard never gives us the holidays off, and he honestly expects us to be grateful for his generous alternative: The Office Party.
It’s a mandatory, all-expenses-paid trip for two weeks at a surprise luxury resort—where we still have to work twelve to fifteen hours a day.
I’m so over this …
So, I put zero percent effort into his gift. I tear the tag off whatever my sister gifts me, add a five-dollar Amazon gift card, and hand it off to him.
It’s not until my sister sends me a text that I realize how terrible of a decision that was.
Georgia: Why haven’t you sent me a 'LOL' about the brand-new vibrator I got you? I really do hope that you use your boss’s face as a muse, like my note says. :-)
If that’s not bad enough, this year’s "luxury trip" will be in my hometown--the place I've avoided for years. At the resort that my grandmother owns...
If the universe gets me out of this, I will never ‘regift’ anything ever again …
A Note from Whitney G.
Dear Awesome Reader,
Thank you so much for picking up The Office Party! This is a steamy holiday novella, and I can’t wait for you to meet Savannah and Garrett!
If you want to be the first to learn of my upcoming releases, sales, and special things that I only offer to my readers, be sure to sign up for my Exclusive F.L.Y. List. (F.L.Y. = Effin Love You. Because whether you love or hate this story, I still love you for giving it a chance!)
Sincerely,
Whitney G.
For you.
You were right.
Prologue
Last Christmas
URGENT:
West Media Internal Memo
Dear Valued Employees,
The holidays are upon us once again, and I’d like to personally remind you that my company does not allow sick or vacation days during this time of year.
Since some of you have recently submitted requests to Human Resources for off-days around Christmas, allow me to reiterate what I said when I first hired you:
There is no such thing as an “off day” in December.
My definition of Christmas is a 14-hour workday.
& The Office Party is a mandatory event.
There are no exceptions to these rules, my top executives and I included.
I look forward to seeing you at the prep–ceremony, where our travel partner will reveal this year’s destination for our two-week, all-expenses-paid work retreat.
Be sure to bring whatever gift you purchased for your coworker(s) via the annual Secret Santa tradition.
Unless you want to be unemployed.
Sincerely,
Garrett West
C.E.O., West Media International
P.S. You’re very welcome for the generous opportunities that I provide for you.
~ The entertainment industry never sleeps, so neither do we. ~
ONE
Savannah
Last Christmas
Punta Cana, Dominican Republic
“Are you sure that your boss is okay with this?” My younger sister, Georgia, unbuckles her seatbelt once our plane lands. “I could’ve sworn you said that he never grants anyone the holidays off.”
“That’s the whole point,” I say. “I’ve planned this trip perfectly. By the time we spend the first two nights here, it’ll be too late for him to do anything about me missing the office party. The worst of the weather will have already approached the coast, and all flights will be cancelled. Especially since Teresa is supposed to be a category four hurricane.”
“I’m sorry, what?” Her eyes widen. “You assured me that hurricane season was over in November.”
“He’ll try to email me at that point, I’m sure.” I can’t stop talking. I’m too excited at the thought of getting away with this.
Getting the hell away from Garrett West.
I started the planning for this trip six months ago, and this surprise, off-season hurricane must be my Christmas gift from the universe. It’s my reward for making the fastest rise in the company within three years and successfully resisting the urge to strangle Garrett West to death.
As his top advisor, I know his routine like the back of my hand. I know that at this very moment, he’s on his private plane en route to Hawaii. He’s leaning back in his chair with that cocky smirk on his lips, sipping his favorite brand of Scotch. Minutes from now, he’ll analyze all the reports I’ve sent him, and then he’ll email me pages of “highly suggested changes” for no reason other than to make my life miserable.
“I’m sure he’ll wonder why I’m gone sooner or later,” I say aloud, smiling. “But I’m not allowing him to torture me with his ridiculous office party this year. During our flight, I set up a specialized responder for any question that he can possibly ask, so he shouldn’t notice my absence for a while.”
“Can you back up and elaborate on just how bad this hurricane is supposed to be?” Georgia asks. “That’s what I want to hear about right now.”
“I’ve never worked for someone who is so obsessed with his work,” I say. “You’d think he’s curing a disease with the way he talks to us. I’ve told you about his ‘’ before, right?”
“The hurricane, Savannah ... ” She narrows her eyes at me. “Start talking about the hurricane.”
“Like, who wants to share Christmas Day with the people who drive you insane during the workweek?” I shake my head. “Some of us actually enjoy going home to see our families.”
“I give up.” She stands to her feet, grabbing her bag from the overhead bin. “You know, in all fairness, you hardly ever come home for the holidays. And if you want me to be perfectly honest, you’re a bit of a workaholic, too. I still haven’t forgiven you for bringing your laptop to my graduation ceremony.”
“I had an emergency deal to finish, and I’ve apologized to you a million times.”
“You’ve apologized twice.”
“That doesn’t mean I’m anything like Garrett West.” I pick up my bag and follow her down the jet bridge. “I’m fully capable of tuning out work and taking a break.”
As if I’m trying to prove my point, I turn off my phone and place it into my back pocket. Then I set the alarm on my watch for when I’ll need to turn it on again.
Following the signs, I lead the way to the customs area. We wait half an hour for the agents to check our passports, and then we grab our suitcases from baggage claim and head to the transportation zone.
A man in a short-sleeved, flowery shirt is holding up a “Welcome to paradise, Savannah & Georgia Grey!” sign.
“Good morning and welcome to Punta Cana, ladies!” He smiles. “I’m Emilio, and I’m looking forward to escorting you to The Excellence Resort. Is there anything you need to—” He pauses as a round of thunder roars from afar. Flashes of lightning follow.
“I’m getting back on the goddamn plane,” Georgia says. “I refuse to die today.”
“Don’t worry about that, Miss.�
�� Emilio holds out his hand for her luggage. “We’ll return to blue skies in a matter of minutes. It’s only a late afternoon thunderstorm.”
She hesitates for a few seconds before giving him the bag.
Smiling, he opens the back door of the black SUV and carefully arranges our things.
Before pulling onto the road, he pours two champagne glasses and hands Georgia a chocolate strawberry plate.
As we ride, I shut my eyes and mentally rewind through my preparation—making sure I’ve dotted all of my i’s, crossed all of my t’s.
Gave a fake doctor’s note. Check.
Made sure my team was two months ahead on their project. Check.
Told the neighbor to hang ‘Get Well Soon, Savannah’ balloons outside my brownstone tomorrow morning. Check.
“Oh, not at all, Miss!” Emilio’s deep laughter pulls me out of my thoughts. “Our resort is built to withstand the strongest of hurricanes, and the worst of this storm won’t hit anywhere near us.”
I look over at Georgia, who doesn’t look the slightest bit soothed. She’s clutching her bag against her chest and rocking back and forth as if we’re seconds away from approaching the end of the world.
“I double-checked everything,” I whisper. “We’re going to be fine. Trust me.”
She ignores me and continues to pepper the driver with questions about the weather.
It doesn’t take long for the sky to redress in blue as Emilio promised, and by the time the grey clouds have drifted away, we’re approaching the end of a street.
The massive wooden gate to The Excellence Resort swings open, and my jaw drops to the floor. The lush greenery ahead is a far cry from my concrete jungle in Manhattan.
I turn on my phone to take pictures, but before I can snap one, a text message crosses my screen.
Bastard Boss (Don’t Answer): I heard that you’ve contracted a “flesh eating disease” and won’t be able to join us in Hawaii … Is this true?
I know that I shouldn’t answer--that I should ignore him until I return to Manhattan, but I can’t help it.
Me: Yes. The worst pain I’ve ever felt.
Bastard Boss (Don’t Answer): I’m sorry to hear that, Miss Grey. That sounds quite unfortunate, and I hope you get well soon.
Me: Thank you so much for your concern, Mr. West. I truly hope the “party” in Hawaii goes well without me. (So that you know, I was looking forward to attending. It seemed like a fantastic resort!)
He sends me three more messages, but I don’t open them. Instead, I mute my inbox and snap as many photos of the passing scenery as I can.
“Okay, you may be forgiven for bringing me here after all,” Georgia says. “This place is absolutely gorgeous.”
When the driver pulls up in front of the resort, the concierge greets us with flowers.
“We’ve upgraded your room, Miss Grey,” he says to me. “Our manager was hoping to greet you in person, but he sends his regards. Please follow my lead as the bellman handles your bags.”
We follow him through a maze of tall palm trees and stone-white buildings. Sparkling blue pools and gardens greet us every two minutes until we approach a standalone villa.
“This is the best suite in the entire resort,” he says, unlocking the door and revealing a world of opulence.
I can hardly contain my excitement as he shows off the amenities.
Private swim-up pool and ocean view. Personal butler and luxury bedding service. Unlimited dessert and alcohol.
No Garrett West.
After he shows us a bonus pool on the roof, Georgia pops open a bottle of champagne, and I flop onto a flamingo float.
“How about a toast?” she says. “First one is to you.”
“No.” I wait for her to pour my glass. “First one is to escaping mandatory attendance …”
* * *
The following morning, I roll over in bed at four o’clock out of habit. My brain is wired to West Media’s holiday schedule, so I open my laptop and start checking my emails.
To my surprise, Mr. West hasn’t sent me a single message, and the only urgent thing I need to do is thank my Secret Santa sender: Jerry in Marketing. He’s given me a Starbucks gift card, an ‘I hope you enjoy reading this’ note, and a paperback copy of How to Deal with an Overbearing Boss.
I own three copies of this book already, and I’ve listened to the audio version countless times, but I tell him that I’m “thrilled” to have a new book to read.
My eyes catch sight of another email—a task I know Mr. West will lose his mind over, and before I know it, I’m ordering room service coffee and handling projects as the minutes slip into hours.
“Working on your vacation already?” Georgia steps into my room around ten, donning a bright red bikini. “Is there another emergency business deal you have to handle?”
“No.” I shut it before tossing it onto the bed. “I’m ready to relax whenever you are.”
“Prove it.” She crosses her arms.
I change into a swimsuit under her watchful eyes, pull my hair up into a bun, and then I grab a few towels before following her to the beach.
As we set our chairs near the shore, the resort’s concierge walks over with a white envelope.
“Miss Grey?” he asks. “I’ve just received an urgent wire message for you.”
“Your manager is being a little over the top.” I smile. “It’s okay that he didn’t personally check us in, I promise.”
“It’s not from our manager, Miss. It’s from a Mr. Garrett West.”
“From a who?” My voice cracks. “What name did you just say?”
“Mr. Garrett West of West Media.” He reads the front of the envelope. “He says that it’s an emergency, and that it is imperative that you read it.”
My entire world comes to a stop, and I shake my head in disbelief. There’s no way in hell that he knows I’m here, so either I’m dreaming right now, or the universe is playing a ridiculously cruel joke on me.
“I don’t know anyone named Garrett West,” I say. “There must be another Savannah Grey here. Sorry.”
“You and your sister are the only guests on this side of the resort, Miss Grey.” He stretches his hand out a bit further, trying to hand it to me.
I don’t take it.
“For security purposes, we made him verify a few things,” he says. “I even asked him to describe you.”
“How did he describe her, then?” Georgia asks, moving next to me. “I mean, I don’t know a Mr. West either, so this man might be a stalker of some sort.”
He gives us a blank stare.
I’m tempted to plop down on my chair and enjoy the rest of my day, but he pulls a crumpled post-it note from his pocket.
Clearing his throat, he begins to read. “And I quote … She’s a fucking vision, but since I need to be specific, she has almond-colored eyes and deep brown curls that frame her face and complement her skin. If she’s anywhere near the water when you give her my message, she’ll probably have her hair pulled up in a polka dot red and black scarf since she only buys that color for some reason.”
I pull the scarf off my head and hide it behind my back. “I’m not wearing a scarf today.”
“Her lips are always coated in a bright shade of red,” he continues. “And whenever she’s lying, she tends to talk very fast and—”
“Okay, enough.” I snatch the envelope from his hands. “Thank you very much for this message.”
“You’re very welcome, Miss Grey.” He nods and walks away.
When he’s out of sight, I rip the envelope to shreds and toss the pieces into the sea. Then I plop down into my chair and try to think of where he is right now.
It’s day two of the party, so he’s in a logistical meeting with YouTube.
“I really wanted to hear the rest of that description,” Georgia says, smiling. “He called you a ‘fucking vision’, so that must mean he’s pretty blunt at work.”
“He’s a lot of things at work.”
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“Is he attractive? Worth googling?”
“Not in the slightest.” I lie, envisioning his perfectly chiseled face. “He’s a pompous, arrogant asshole whose self-esteem is so low that he thinks thousand-dollar suits make women want him. They don’t.”
“Oh, well that’s sad.”
“Heartbreaking.” I pull my shades over my eyes and relax, hoping like hell that I’ll wake up and realize today never happened.
Please let that hurricane come early.
ONE (B)
Savannah
Last Christmas
Punta Cana, Dominican Republic
Later that night
The lobby’s palm trees twinkle as Georgia and I pose for pictures. We’re donning plush white robes from the spa, courtesy of our upgrade. And thanks to the manager—and the pending storm, we have the entire building to ourselves.
Grey clouds are hovering above the island, and heavy rain is attacking the windows, but the staff doesn’t seem too concerned.
“I need to grab a different reindeer headband from the gift-shop,” Georgia says. “You want one?”
“Yeah, but can you get me an angel instead of the reindeer?”
“Absolutely.” She grabs her purse and rushes down the steps.
When I’m sure that she’s away, I pull out my phone and log into the private Boss-Snark forum I started when I first started working at West Media. I can’t resist knowing what’s going on at the party right now, and for some reason, I feel like something is slightly off.