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“Well, you’re wrong,” I say, looking up at her. “This is the perfect graphic.”
“Get rid of it,” she snaps. “No cupcakes.”
I pout. Because that cupcake is so beautiful. And the cherry and the pink… “But it’s so delicious-looking, Gretchen. It makes men want to think of…” I look up at her again. “Delicious lady bits.”
Gretchen’s face contorts into this horrible, grouchy frown. “We’re not Penthouse, either, Eden. Find something appropriate for our customer base or I’ll let Pierce know we need to get a new marketing team.”
Team? I’m the only one on this team. But I don’t say that. I just make a sad face and stare at my computer.
“And that title. Just keep the titles and make new graphics, Eden. I didn’t tell you to rewrite anything. You’re not a writer.” And then she laughs.
But I kinda am. I’ve written most of the scripts for the Sexpert this past year and that’s how I know this title and this cupcake are both perfect.
“OK,” I say, putting on my fake cheer. Because I don’t want to fight with my boss. “What did you need?”
“The art department just called me. They have a question about a graphic and need you up there now so they can get the next article on track for approval. And if that graphic is pink, has sprinkles, or is a picture of a dessert, find a new one.”
With that she turns on her heel and walks away.
I sigh, tired of taking orders from her when I’m the one who’s qualified. She doesn’t have a booming YouTube channel. And holy shit, Sexpert Channel is going crazy. Zoey texted me six times this morning to update me on our subscribers. She was so excited when we reached two hundred and fifty thousand last night, she called me at four AM. Apparently she was up all night just hitting refresh, watching the numbers climb in real time.
She even opened her bottle of Moët Champagne she’s been saving since her baby shower to celebrate when we got to half a million this morning.
It’s pretty fun and a part of me wishes I wasn’t stuck here at my job and was home with her celebrating instead.
I hate having to hide. I can’t even tell Myrtle about our new success.
“Eden!” Gretchen barks from her office. “Why are you still here?”
“Going!” I sing out, then grab my tablet and phone and make my way to the elevator. Just as I push the button my phone dings a text in my hand so I glance down at the screen.
Myrtle: Guess who’s here?
Me: I’m on my wayup now for graphics c u ina sec
Myrtle: He’s leaving right now. Better hurry.
Me: shit andrew?
Myrtle: Hurry! He’s waiting for the elevator.
Oh, thank you for the heads up, Myrtle. Because now I’m definitely taking the stairs up to the art department. The last thing I need is to see Andrew again. Last night was a total disaster. I mean—how unlucky can one girl get? I feel like the universe is conspiring against me. And it’s not fair because Zoey and I have been working so hard on this Sexpert thing trying to make a go at it and finally, the very day we actually have a chance to make some actual money and move up, the whole thing gets tainted with stupid accusations that aren’t even true.
At least I don’t think they’re true.
There’s this little part of me that has doubts. Like maybe I did overhear Pierce saying something about his idea for the Sexpert and just don’t remember. I’m that kind of girl. I’m always… ruffled.
The elevator dings and I realize Andrew could be on the other side of those doors right this second. So I spin around, open the door to the stairs, and duck inside.
When I look up who do I see? “Are you kidding me right now?”
“How lucky can a guy get?” Andrew laughs.
“Funny.” I sigh. “I was just thinking the exact opposite. But apparently a girl can always get more unlucky than she is already.”
We are in the middle of the floor—him coming down, me going up—and I just want to get past him as quickly as possible, so I push forward, dodging left, but he dodges right—his right, which is my left—and I actually smack into his chest.
There is a flurry of uncoordinated movements, and swearing (that’s me) and his hands on my arms sending that now familiar tingle through my body, and I compensate by dodging left, but he dodges right—that’s right, his right—and we smack together again.
I place two hands on his chest to push him away but then I lose my balance and I’m about to fall backwards down the stairs when he reaches out to grab me—his fingers slipping, but he overcompensates this time, snatching at my shirt in desperation because I truly am about to fall ass-backwards down half a flight of stairs—
