Total pages in book: 73
Estimated words: 69858 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 349(@200wpm)___ 279(@250wpm)___ 233(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 69858 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 349(@200wpm)___ 279(@250wpm)___ 233(@300wpm)
I watch as he adds a generous tip—hey, if he can creep on my phone, I can creep on his bill—and adds a messy, masculine scrawl to the bottom of the bill.
He stands and glances down at me, bored expression firmly in place.
“Really nice to meet you, Mac,” he says dryly, as he slips his wallet back into an interior suit pocket.
I lift my wine glass in mocking acknowledgement, and I pick up my phone from the bar to see if TapThat #3 or #4 have tapped me.
I jump a little when I feel a warm hand press low on my back to get my attention. I turn my head towards Thomas, then freeze when I find his face is just inches from my own, his lips a whisper away.
Something unfamiliar and dangerous tingles down my spine at his closeness.
“Here’s a quick fact about me that you missed, Mac,” he says, and the crisp pronunciation of the ending ck sound of my name is borderline erotic.
He waits patiently for me to meet his gaze before delivering his parting barb with a cool smile: “I didn’t tap you either.”
CHAPTER TWO
Monday, September 12
I’ve never been that girl who rocks the whole early morning thing. For that matter, how old is too old to consider oneself a girl? Is twenty-eight too old?
Probably.
But considering I’m wearing bikini bottoms under my slacks because I forgot to do laundry, it’s safe to say I’m not exactly crushing adulthood by most people’s standards.
Let’s just say, it’s been A Morning, capital M. The kind where you snooze your alarm three times past whoops. Which means the shower is an “essentials only,” no time for languishing. Blow dry? Nope. And though I always love taking time with my makeup, today, it’s limited to a swipe of concealer beneath my eyes, and a dark red lipstick applied while navigating Manhattan foot traffic.
And even with all that rushing?
Late. I’m going to be late. Which, I’ll be honest, isn’t a completely uncommon occurrence, and usually it isn’t even that big of a deal. I work at the global headquarters for a super-high-end jewelry brand, which you’d think would mean everything is very nine to five and by the book.
And maybe it is, in some departments. But I’m a graphic designer, and my team leans heavily into the eccentric creative stereotype. I’ve had one coworker who’s been campaigning for years to be able to bring her cats to work because they center her aura. Another who has special goggles in the office to block out the “bad vibes” of the overhead fluorescents.
My tardiness is just not that big of a deal.
Usually. Today is different.
Today, my team of misfits gets a new boss—the next in a long line of senior managers who we’ve run off, not intentionally, just . . . well, see above about cats and goggles.
I work at Fifty-Ninth and Broadway, and the elevator ride up to the thirty-eighth floor makes a half-dozen stops and takes forever. I cross my toes inside my patent leather flats that the nine am staff meeting is off to a late start, but making my way towards my cubicle, I know I’ll have no such luck. The floor is way too quiet.
Which means, my entire team is in the conference room to meet the new boss, and now I get to do a very special kind of walk of shame. I don’t even have the trusty standby excuse of New Yorkers everywhere (“Grr! The damn subway!”), because everyone knows I walk the few blocks.
I mentally run through possible excuses, but I used up all the good ones in my repertoire when I was hooking up with a security guard in a nearby office building who worked the night shift. Our best chance at Sexy Times was in the tiny sliver of time between him leaving his shift and me getting into the office.
Even if that guy was still in the picture, I’m not sure I want to start off my first day with a new boss by alluding to morning sex excuses. I’m free-spirited, not nuts.
It doesn’t help that Elodie’s HQ is nearly as glitzy as the brand’s stores and products. Everything from the cubicle dividers to the conference room walls are clear. Navigating around the office unnoticed isn’t really an option.
Suck it up, Mac.
Dropping my stuff off at my cubicle, I speed-walk to the conference room, slowing down as I approach. All things considered, my entrance isn’t as bad as it could be. The door doesn’t squeak when I open it. And because there’s so many people in the meeting today, they’ve brought in extra chairs, and I’m able to grab one right near the doorway. My new boss’s boss is speaking, and seems wonderfully unaware of my late arrival.
Stevie—one of my fellow designers who’s apparently decided to forgo his goggles for this morning’s occasion—leans over. “Love the hair. Very mermaid.”