Whit's Hours Novels & Stories

What I needed was someone who could reach the Aldren Group’s senior partner through a channel that had nothing to do with the contractual dispute. Not to pressure anyone. Just to have a quiet conversation about what walking away now would actually cost them compared to what staying cost them. Whitmore knew the senior partner. Of course he did. “Give me until Friday,” he said. It was Wednesday afternoon. Thirty-six hours. “Thank you,” I said. “Don’t thank me yet,” he said, and hung up. I spent Thursday doing what you do when you are waiting for something important and

“Since, we’re talking about them. What time is the first set of them coming in?” “Eight. They should be here in-,” Williamson said and looked at his watch. “Twenty minutes. They’re going to work ten-hour shifts. Our men will be on five-hour shifts per watch. The schedule is . . . somewhere on your desk.” Matt was straightening papers as Williamson talked. He wasn’t the neatest desk drone. If he was more organized, maybe the paperwork wouldn’t have driven him crazy. “Names?” “Albertson and Rodriguez.” “During the drive, you just told me about his part in all this. How . . . how did Dalton look? How is he - really?” Matt asked with concern.

"Yes. He arrived at the office at six this morning. He said he had a lot of work to catch up on." Clara felt a small pang of unease. Adrian was dedicated, but six in the morning was extreme even for him. "Is everything all right? He seemed fine when I saw him last." James hesitated for just a fraction of a second. "Everything is fine, Ms. Hayes. Mr. Whitmore is simply... very focused on the rebranding project." "I see." They walked to the elevator together. As the doors closed, Clara's phone dinged with a text message. She glanced at the screen.

Adrian Whitmore hadn’t slept. He stood at his penthouse office, watching the city wake up at dawn. His reflection stared back at him with his tie loosened, shirt sleeves rolled up and his jaw tight with exhaustion and purpose. Arabella had been gone for twelve hours. Twelve hours of silence. Twelve hours of resisting the urge to call her, to go after her, to fix this. But he couldn’t fix what she wouldn’t let him touch. What he could fix was everything else.

"But I have been managing without it by doing extra hours myself and my back will not thank me for continuing that." "So there is a position open? " "There is a position," he said. "Minimum wage. Twelve hours a week to start. Thursdays and Fridays, four hours each, and a Saturday morning prep shift that runs three to four hours dependig on the delivery." "I will take it." "I have not offered it yet," he said. "I know. But I will take it when you do." He gave me the look he used when he was deciding whether to be amused or professional. He settled on professional.

“But you spoke to her.” Adrian slowly stood. “What are you talking about?” His assistant hesitated. “Mrs. Whitmore fainted at work.” The room suddenly felt smaller. “Why?” “The doctors said exhaustion.” Another pause. “And stress.” Adrian remained standing. His mind struggled to process the information. “When was this?” “December fifteenth.” His assistant looked at him carefully. “Six months ago.” Adrian stared at him. “How long was she in the hospital?” “Three days.” Three days.

He simply chose not to bother most of the time. I wasn’t sure why that annoyed me more. By the time the main course arrived, conversation had loosened. Harry looked across the table at me. “How long have you been with Whitmore?” “Five days.” He stopped with his glass halfway to his mouth. “Five days?” Peter looked delighted to answer for me. “She started Monday. Questioned our Tectrics recommendation Tuesday.” Kenneth stared at me. “You reopened an investment on your second day?” “I asked questions.”

I still can’t remember the address so I’d have to use GPS again. The drive was a blur of city streets, horns blaring, pedestrians weaving through crosswalks, the late morning sun glinting off skyscraper windows. I glanced at the dashboard clock: 10:45 AM. My stomach twisted in disappointment. The email from Cade, the CEO of Whitelock Industries, had requested 10:00 AM, and I’d let time slip away at the site. “Damn it, Christine,” I muttered, gripping the steering wheel tighter. I’d meant to leave earlier, but the renovators had questions, endless questions about paint finishes and lighting fixtures and that consumed my time. I took a deep breath as I pulled into the parking lot of Whitelock’

Their shifts started at 9:00 am and ended at 5:00 pm, with a two-hour break in between. Consequently, their total working hours had been relatively short. Despite this, they had all been very diligent and had put in significant effort during their time at the company, just as they had been doing then.

“You remember what arguing with me does to you. Might want to check under the table.” My eyes widened. “You’re kidding.” He smirked, cocking a brow. “Go on, take a peek. I know you’re curious.” Once the drinks were mostly gone and my nerves had stopped buzzing quite so loudly, we finally settled into something that resembled real conversation. “How many hours do you log in that tower of yours every day?” “I’m usually in by seven-thirty. Out around seven.” “Twelve hours a day? That’s a seventy-hour work week.”