Total pages in book: 157
Estimated words: 159208 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 796(@200wpm)___ 637(@250wpm)___ 531(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 159208 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 796(@200wpm)___ 637(@250wpm)___ 531(@300wpm)
She ignores me.
“If you were management, what would you do?” I ask, aiming to pull her out of her own head.
“Well...I guess I’d find some class on copywriting trends and send her to training for a refresh. And I either wouldn’t ask her to choose color schemes and images or know that someone needs to check it over. If she’s been here for a while, it’s not fair to hold her vision against her.”
“That’s a fair solution, Miss Poe. Find a copywriting course and send it to me, not Anna. Problem solved.”
“Is that even a thing? Copywriting classes?”
“How should I know? It’s your idea. I just happen to like it, and everyone will benefit from utilizing Cheryl’s talents,” I say.
With that, I walk past her desk.
“Hey, wait. Where are you going?” she calls after me.
I stop, throwing a cold look over my shoulder.
“Lunch. Are you coming or not?”
Dammit, Burns. Danger, a voice screeches in the back of my head.
I know.
I know I shouldn’t when every reckless part of me screams should.
“Could you bring me something back?” she asks in a low, awkward whisper.
“Do I look like DoorDash? Join me if you want to eat.” This has to be what self-sabotage sounds like.
“Fiiine,” she slurs, muttering something less flattering under her breath. I try not to smile. “Where are we going?”
She pushes her chair away from her desk and stands.
“What do you like?”
“Hot Italian beef sandwiches drenched in the salty tears of terrible bosses.” Her green eyes flash with wicked delight.
For once, I think she’s cracking a joke that isn’t meant to flay me open.
“Hot beef sandwiches it is, but there’ll be no tears today.”
“Today.”
“You enjoy watching people cry that much and you think I’m the psycho?” I snort, nearly shaking my head off my shoulders.
I don’t expect a breakthrough.
Somehow, we get through lunch without wanting to murder each other.
Somehow, we talk like normal human beings about entirely work-related business.
Somehow, we take a step back from holding knives at each other’s throats.
A few days later, when I come up for air after dealing with suppliers, partners, and production, we’ve survived an entire week with Dakota Poe as both executive assistant and copywriter.
Her work remains impeccable.
If she stays on track, she’ll single-handedly make this big launch a breeze. That’s easily worth more than the private bonus I agreed to pay out at the end of her ninety days.
But tomorrow, I need to check in on Wyatt since I haven’t seen him for a few days, so I text Dakota.
When you do tomorrow’s coffee run, pick up eight Regis rolls. Make sure you’re there early so they don’t run out, and don’t forget I want you on the call with the designer from Rome tomorrow. Tell her what American women want in a dress.
I hate that I keep a hand over my phone, anticipating her reply. I barely make idle conversation with Louis as he fights our way through late evening traffic.
When my phone buzzes, I bring it to my face so fast I almost drop the damn thing.
Dakota: Psycho hoarder, are you sure I’m the right person to be on this call? I’m not the type of girl who’d pay for a luxury dress. For all I know, luxury dress shoppers might not even care about comfort.
I frown, wondering what kind of dress she picked out once upon a fucked up time. And what kind of shrimp-dicked little coward ruined what would’ve been the happiest day of her life?
Everyone cares about comfort, and you know the industry. Also, I haven’t worn a dress before so my input counts far less than yours, I send back.
Dakota: You’re such an asshat.
Lincoln: What did I do now?
Dakota: Don’t worry. I’ll be there to bail you out.
A smile pulls at my lips, but doesn’t fully form.
Are you okay? I start typing. If this is still bringing back bad memories, I’m more than willing to—
No.
I erase the text and slap my phone against my thigh.
Nevermore made it perfectly clear she doesn’t want special treatment. She wants to fight, even if that means stirring up the phantom pain of a marriage that never was.
I only wish I knew why that scrambles my brain until Louis looks back with obvious concern, and I punch the privacy screen up.
I wish like hell I could stop counting how many times I see her smile around the office. Especially those rare, bright moments when she stops dishing out her hot takes long enough to shut it and listen.
To meet my eyes with her soul.
To grin and laugh before she catches herself and hides her heart away again behind its moat of past hurts and overprotective dragons snorting pure sarcasm.
Dakota Poe’s smile is not my problem, not my life, and not my concern.
It’s just a rotten new addiction I need to stop cold fucking turkey.