“I got your memo.” He takes a seat on the other side of my desk and props his ankle on his knee. “You don’t agree with the models we’ve created?”
I watc
h his face, but it’s like trying to read a frying pan. See? Should’ve just agreed with the models.
I clear my throat, pretending a layer of slick sweat isn’t coating my palms. “Models are fine, but at the end of the day, they’re just tools that require human judgment. My judgment says we should modify the recommendations a little.”
Pete arches an eyebrow, then gestures for me to continue.
He’s going to fire me. I have to convince him I’m right. “The models didn’t account for qualitative data. Which is to be expected, since you can’t really capture that sort of factor with numbers.”
Without criticizing the beloved models! my brain screams frantically. I go into a rather involved explanation of the qualitative data I discovered, the things I did to try to incorporate them into the calculations, but how they were insufficient.
Throughout it all, Pete looks at me, his face frustratingly impassive, although he’s listening intently, his torso angled slightly forward.
“Anyway, does that clear things up?” Say yes, say yes, say yes. I don’t know what I’ll do if he says no in some passive-aggressive way and wants me to go into it more. Some of the VPs at SFG did exactly that with people they disagreed with.
“Yeah. I’m just surprised you wrapped it so quickly and that you actually saw beyond the numbers. When I read your résumé, I thought you were a math geek, and that’s what got Gavin interested.”
I let myself relax, just a bit. “I like numbers, but the market’s made up of emotions, too.”
Pete grins. “Precisely. I’m glad we’re in agreement. Your conclusion matches mine. Good job, Pascal.”
Relief rushes through me, pushing the tension away from my neck and shoulders. “Thank you.”
“Seriously, I don’t know where Gavin finds his talent, but he sure is quick to snatch it up,” he says quietly, a hint of awe in his tone. “We’re having a happy hour tomorrow to welcome you to the team, separate from the lunch Gavin’s coming to. You okay with that?”
I grin. “Of course.”
“Awesome. See you at the meeting.”
“Meeting?” I ask blankly.
He laughs. “Check your email for your weekly agenda. It should hit your inbox every Monday morning at nine.”
Argh! I haven’t checked anything since I grabbed Pete’s assignment. “Do I need to prep something?”
“Nope. It’s your first day, so just introduce yourself and listen.” He stands. “You’ll do very well here.”
Chapter Forty-Two
Court
Although I miss Skittles, I try not to text or call her. She’s busy, and this is her first day. I don’t want to get her into trouble by distracting her.
I check my emails. To be honest, I don’t know why they’re called emails. More like electronic rabbits. I swear every night they fuck and dump ten million more babies in my inbox.
Percy. Ugh. I forward it to my lawyer to deal with. Dad asking me when I’m going to be home. Of course, he didn’t write it. That’s not how he works. His assistant did, dutifully, just like every quarter. She follows up after exactly seven days if I don’t respond. A few emails from charitable foundations, most of which I’m not interested in because I don’t know or trust the people in charge. A lot of them are just in it to enrich the founders and administrative teams.
But one from the Pryce Family Foundation catches my attention, and I read it with care. The Pryce Family Foundation is one of a few charities I know that spends most of its money on helping people. It probably doesn’t hurt that Elizabeth King, who is in charge, is an heiress who married well, and refuses to draw a salary or charge expenses. She’s one of the very few who genuinely wants to change the world for the better.
The email is an invitation to be “sold” at a bachelor auction to raise money for a local pediatric oncology department. Some of the money is for research, but she wants to spend most of it on financial help for the families. The letter contains stories of the struggles the kids’ parents face, and how every little bit can help stoke the children’s determination and hope to get better. She also has some statistics, but it’s the kids that sell me. I won’t participate in the auction, since I’m already taken, but there’s no way I’m not going to help out financially.
I start typing a response, then stop when the phone rings. My heart leaps.
But it’s just Edgar. And I remember that it’s about that time for his obligatory call.
“Hey, man,” I say.