Mr. Grumpy Boss (Alphalicious Billionaires Boss #1) - Lindsey Hart Page 0,4
do my own reports. But I also I know it’s what other departments are for, and an assistant. Other execs have them. All of the execs here have an assistant. Plus, there are other departments like accounting, marketing, and HR for a reason.
I’m a shit leader. I know that about myself. I’m smart, but I don’t have the people skills my dad had. Also, I’m freaking tired. All. The. Time. I’m exhausted. The bone-deep kind of tired that never goes away. I never felt like that before Dad died. At first, I thought it was grief. Now I feel like it’s a part of me. I never had anxiety or panic attacks before. But now it’s getting worse.
In grade three, our class did choral speaking. There was this huge competition and, long story short, I peed my pants right there up on the stage because I was so nervous. I think even that would be preferable to the panic attacks and Sutton seeing them. I managed to keep them a secret until one afternoon, she walked into my office and found me under my desk. After that, I don’t know. It’s like she books everything for me. She knows all about my life. She freaking picks up my food and my dry cleaning. So, why not let her watch me have a meltdown too? At least she’s professional about it. I know she’d never tell anyone. She’s way too nice.
I haven’t been the best person lately. Okay, for like, four years. I’ve been a huge asshole. To everyone. I know that. I just wish I could stop. I want to get this under control. I just don’t know how. With medication? Are there other ways? Not just the panic attacks and the anxiety, but the not sleeping thing. The being a jerk thing. Although, if I could get rid of the other three, maybe the assholeness would take a break. It’s hard to be patient when you haven’t slept in a week.
I need help. I can’t keep putting this on my secretary.
My inbox pings as one email comes in, and I nearly leap out of my office chair. I see it’s from Sutton—the report I demanded. I think about leaving it, but I want to fire it off with the correction to the other execs from this morning’s meeting. I know it was missing a zero, and I could have fixed it myself, but no. I just had to be a jerk. Rub her mistake in. Even after she walked me through the sixth panic attack that she’s seen. Or is it the seventh? The eighth? I’ve lost count. Lost count of how many I’ve hidden from everyone. How many I’ve had on my own. How many Sutton has seen.
My neck feels like it could crack, and if it did, it would probably be a relief. The muscles there are bunched so tight, it’s feeding into the headache that’s settled behind my eyes. The bridge of my nose burns because I think about how disappointed my dad would be at my shit leadership, but I force a shaky inhale and blink fast.
It’s just the lack of sleep.
I download the file and open it. I blink. Then blink again. Faster. Not because my nose is still tingling, but because this isn’t the report I asked for. I exit out of the file and check the name of the attachment.
Diary Therapy Thingy.
Okay. I get that Sutton didn’t mean to send me this. Or maybe she did. Maybe it’s some kind of not-so-gentle nudge with a mockup project someone else wrote as an example of how I can get my ass back to normal. People say talking helps. Writing helps. Maybe it’s just Sutton being Sutton and being way too nice to me like she’s always been.
Her niceness, by the way, is annoying. It sets my teeth on edge because it reminds me of what a jerk hole I am and how utterly trash my general attitude is.
I read the message she sent in the body of her email. Here’s the report attached. Thanks, Sutton.
No mention of any mock diary or therapy or her calling someone to set up an appointment for me. Nothing. I’m pretty sure the report was supposed to be attached. Which means whatever I just received was sent in error.
Now I’m curious. My headache is fading into the background, and I click on the document, opening it up again.