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)
“So,” I say, twisting one of my earring studs. “I guess now I know why you were in the neighborhood on Friday. Checking out the hood of your new office?”
Smoke & Baron, the bar where he and I met, is just one avenue over from the Elodie offices.
He lifts a shoulder, neither a confirmation or denial, then picks up his iPad from the table, glancing down. “Mackenzie Austin. AKA Mac.” His gaze lifts again. “You put your nickname on your professional résumé?”
“Obviously.”
His eyes narrow, and I try to remind myself that this is no longer just some jerk at the bar, but the man who will determine my paycheck, my promotions, my very livelihood.
I smile. “You can call me Mackenzie if it makes you feel more comfortable, Thomas. Or should I call you Mr . . .”
“Decker,” he says distractedly. “Thomas Decker.”
Damn. It’s a good name. I was hoping for something like Woodcock, or Spunkmeyer, or Seaman. You know, something I could really sink my mocking teeth into.
“You’re a designer?” he asks, still scanning my résumé.
I nod. “I taught myself Photoshop in high school and sort of fell in love with it.”
“No college?”
He asks it casually, not accusatorially, but my spine stiffens a bit anyway. “Wasn’t really in the cards for me. But I’ve taken plenty of design classes in the city. And my work speaks for itself.”
“I’m sure it does,” he says noncommittally. “Christina speaks highly of you. You’ve been here longer than almost anyone else on the team.”
I nod. “Diana, the senior copyeditor, started a few weeks before me, but we’ve both been here about six years.”
“You like it?”
I give him a slight smile. “If I didn’t, I certainly wouldn’t tell my new boss on his first day.”
“Why not? You don’t seem the type to censor your thoughts.”
“Well spotted,” I say with a laugh. “And you’re right. If I didn’t like it, I’d probably blurt it out.”
But I do like my job. Quite a bit, actually.
When I’d said I fell in love with Photoshop in high school, that was true, but that had really just been the start of it; my crush phase of loving all things design. I still use Photoshop, obviously, and a handful of other programs as well, but my work stopped being about my skill with certain apps a long time ago. For me, being a designer is just an ostentatious way of saying that I get paid for my imagination.
Yes, there’s a lot of precision involved, which admittedly isn’t usually my jam, but it’s worth it to get to create something from nothing, to see something that lives in your head come alive on the computer screen. There’s nothing quite like it. Especially now that I’m the senior designer on the team. I get to spend a lot more time with the concepts, and leave the pixel perfect stuff to Stevie and Monroe.
But here’s a weird truth about me:
Sometimes I want to leave Elodie.
Not because I don’t like my job, not because I’m not good at it.
But because I love it, because I’m good at it.
I’ve got the itchy sense that I’m betraying myself by staying in this cushy comfort zone. I feel at odds with myself, you know? I’m the woman who stays up too late, eats peanut butter Oreos for dinner way too often, who doesn’t need or even want a guy to call the next day.
And yet when it comes to my professional life, I’m basically a white-picket-fence golden retriever suburbanite, in the form of a steady paycheck, a nine-to-five schedule, and a freaking health savings account.
I try not to think about it much, honestly. It’s too uncomfortable, but for some reason this guy, the way Thomas looks at me, as though he sees all, and judges all, brings all those pesky, contradictory thoughts rushing forward. One more reason to dislike him.
“Okay, I have to ask,” I say, shifting slightly in my chair, because bikini bottoms don’t make for the most comfortable underwear substitute and we’ve got a real riding up situation, if you know what I’m saying.
“Is this going to be weird?” I continue.
“Is what going to be weird?” he asks. “The fact that you and I crossed paths in a dating app prior to working together?”
“And crossed paths in person,” I point out.
Thomas shrugs indifferently. “I shouldn’t think it’d be a problem. We didn’t actually date. Neither has even a remote interest in the other, romantically speaking.”
The calm way he says this chafes at my nerves. I hear no intent to insult, just a dispassionate stating of facts, which is somehow more insulting than if he’d taken a petty swipe.
“Will it be a problem for you?” he asks, looking so genuinely concerned at the prospect that I want to lean forward and strangle him.
“Of course not,” I say with as much serenity as I can muster. “As far as I’m concerned, Friday night never happened.”