Total pages in book: 24
Estimated words: 23753 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 119(@200wpm)___ 95(@250wpm)___ 79(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 23753 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 119(@200wpm)___ 95(@250wpm)___ 79(@300wpm)
I’ve seen plenty of beautiful women in my life, but never thought about any of them minutes after meeting them.
Let alone hours…
I’m still envisioning long auburn hair falling past her shoulders in waves, deep brown eyes that didn’t wither under any of my stares. The way her grey skirt clung to her hips was distracting in a way that had no place in my office, and those stilettos… sharp, precise, the kind of detail that pulled my thoughts somewhere they had no business going.
Then there was her mouth. Christ. Bow-shaped, defiant, every word out of it more temptation than professionalism. Exactly the kind of detail that makes me forget what the hell I was about to say—and I hate that she has that effect on me.
Okay. Maybe meeting her any earlier would’ve been a distraction.
“Miss Clarke is very well-liked and doesn’t have any infractions on her record.” Brian rattles off the deep-dive research I requested. “And, uh, it looks like she was handling the previous auditor’s work and running things whenever he slacked off on deadlines.”
“In that case, she should’ve been fired with him, correct?”
He shoots me a pointed look.
“I’m just trying to figure out how an entire department is years behind,” I say. “And also—how I’m just now finding this out.”
“Miss Clarke submitted a suspected fraud to Human Resources on Garrett.” He hands me a printed pink sheet. “You fired him before they could look into him, though.”
“Is it too late to look into this now?”
“I’ll get a private auditor on it.”
“Thank you.”
He starts to walk away, but I clear my throat.
“Where the hell are you going, Brian?”
“To get started on the auditing report… right?”
“Wrong.” I gesture for him to take a seat. “I need to hear everything else you’ve found on Miss Clarke.”
He blinks.
“Previous employers, references, everything.”
“Do you really need me to read over that now?”
“Yes.” I pick up my whiskey. “Right now.”
—
TWENTY-ONE DAYS LATER
THE ACCOUNTANT
KENDALL
I’m convinced there are only three types of assholes in this world: the ones who take a class and learn how to be one, the ones who are naturally born with it baked into their DNA, and Lucian Pearson.
And I’m pretty sure he’s ranked number one.
As if I needed a personal countdown clock, he’s invaded my inbox three times a day since we met with the same subject line: Rough Reminder: Quarterly Report.
It’s as if he thinks seeing his name flash on my screen will somehow make me work faster.
Spoiler alert: It hasn’t.
Double spoiler alert: I’m still not finished.
My stomach twists as I punch the numbers again and again, my calculator blinking the same impossible result. Three million. Gone. It’s too neat, too precise to be a simple mistake—tiny withdrawals that add up to a perfect, impossible number. Three million dollars unaccounted for.
For a billion-dollar company, it’s nothing. But for me? It’s a boulder on my chest. Accounting is supposed to be my thing—my passion, my precision—and I can’t let this go.
Mindy
I’ve got snacks on snacks on snacks! Are you coming back to join the team for audit check tonight?
No, I can’t leave Myra overnight so I’ll work from home. Call me whenever you need help with something.
Will do! PS—Don’t forget to fill out that survey. The board is threatening to deduct $50 off your next check for whoever doesn’t. O_o #hellonearth
I tiptoe past Myra’s room, listening for her steady breathing before I twist open a bottle of tequila. The cap pops sharp in the quiet, and I pour myself a glass with a hand that isn’t as steady as it should be. Maybe if I drink enough, the numbers will finally add up.
By the time I’m halfway through recalculating travel expenses, my inbox pings.
Subject: Rough Reminder. Quarterly Report
Of course.
Against my better judgment, I open it.
Miss Clarke,
I could’ve sworn I marked this report as being due this morning.
Have you died? Do I need to make funeral arrangements?
—Lucian Pearson
“Unbelievable,” I mutter, rolling my eyes as I type out a blistering response. Delete. Redraft. Delete again. A few sips of tequila later, I finally manage something with no F-bombs.
Good evening, Mr. Pearson,
No, I have not passed away, and I doubt you would care if I did…
Nonetheless, this was a very tight deadline for this big of a project, and I mentioned to my supervisor that I needed more time.
Thank you for understanding.
—Kendall Clarke
His reply lands before I can even take another sip.
Miss Clarke,
I would care if you passed away.
I would also show up to your funeral in hopes that you left some of your finished work with one of your family members.
The quarterly report needs to be in my inbox by midnight.
No more extensions.
I never said I “understood.”
—Lucian Pearson
“Okay, fuck you,” I mutter, slamming my laptop shut.
I flop facedown on the couch, the cushions swallowing me whole. For the first time all week, I let myself just be still. A few blissful minutes pass before I roll over, balancing my tequila on the armrest, sipping like it’s holy water.