Gina
Monday mornings at Preston Enterprises always felt like organized chaos.
By eight-thirty, every phone on the switchboard was lighting up like a Christmas tree. Vendors were calling to confirm deliveries, store managers needed transfers to accounting, buyers were trying to track down executives who hadn’t even made it into the building yet, and somewhere in the middle of it all, Jill had already managed to drink half a pot of coffee.
“I swear,” she muttered as she slipped her headset over her ears, “if one more person asks me if I can transfer them to ‘that nice man in charge,’ I’m going to start asking if they’d like fries with that.”
I laughed as I logged into my station.
“You’ve been saying that for six months.”
“And one day I’m actually going to do it.”
“You’ll get fired.”
