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Her smile is so broad, I swear she’s about to dance, but then she sees me observing her, and she bites her lip and hides behind the monitor.
Mark leans closer to speak, and I suppress a shiver, but then I catch the sight of a person farther away. He props his frame against the glass office door, waiting for us to approach him.
“Our marketing team is great. These people are masterminds behind the scenes. The social media world is at their fingertips. This is where all the magic happens.”
“And who is he?” I motion at the man who appears to be in his late twenties with a unique sense of fashion. He wears a bright pink shirt paired with a vest and jeans. His batman buckle on his leather belt shines at me and his short dark hair is styled with gel.
“Let’s meet the man who wields magic,” he whispers, excited, leading me straight to him.
“Hi, I’m Peter but not Pan.”
I snigger at his nerdy remark as he pushes his black frame glasses up his nose.
“Mr. Lawson here actually isn’t exasperating about us. We are social media wizards. Nothing happens until we explode all over the Internet and mass media channels like a bad spell.”
Peter’s one of these geek guys you either love or avoid. But I feel very comfortable around him since I like to take a step back and listen, observe my surroundings before diving in.
“Peter has worked with us for over eight years, and he’s the head of this department. He’s also the one who’s pulling strings and makes the books sell.”
Peter’s eyes light up as Mark speaks about him. His appreciation and acknowledgment go a long way.
“Did you know a very famous movie star signed up with us to write his biography book?” Eyes sparkle as he dishes.
Unable to help myself, I ask, “Oh, really, who is it?”
“Chris Baker.” He grabs me from Mark and leads me toward his neat—and full of colorful stationery—covered desk. “The man has such a vibrant charisma. I swear, I’ll be buying a bulk of his books.”
I chuckle as he goes into more detail about the future plans and ideas on how to market this particular star.
“If you have any interesting concepts, bring them to me. Sometimes the worst ideas become the best with a little work.” Peter winks and leaves us.
We continue touring for a while, visiting other departments. I lost count of how many people I met or spoke to. But not Mark. He addressed them by their first names, sometimes even asking about their spouses or kids, talked about their admirable work.
He’s a god here. And Fading Ink is his kingdom. He takes care of his subjects.
“Don’t worry, they won’t take offense if you forget their names,” Mark suddenly speaks, watching me scribble my notes. I swallow my surprise; he actually noticed me doing that.
“I’d feel better if I don’t ask every time we see each other.” I save the changes and close the app.
After he shows me around, his ghostly touch feathers my spine with warmth, guiding me back to the elevator to return to our floor. I press the button, and the door closes.
“What do you think about Fading Ink since you saw it all?” His husky voice washes over my skin like an intimate lover’s whisper. I bite my lip to rein in the attraction so I can answer him.
I crane my neck to look at him watching me from the corner of his eyes. “I think your house is very modern and has great structure and leadership. You treat your employees well, and it shows in the way they work as a team and how much enthusiasm they bring to the table. The atmosphere is incredible, and that alone is quite an achievement in my eyes.”
“So, you like it here so far.” His lips stretch into a grin.
“It has been only a few hours, but yes, I do. To be honest, it’s been a while since I’ve felt this excited to work.” Feeling Mark’s gaze caressing my bright hair, I rake my hand over it to smooth the edges, nervous he might see my injuries. It’s not a secret how I got them, but I feel very exposed and uncomfortable when they start asking questions.
I always carefully apply my makeup to hide my scars, but when I stand next to him, I feel my imperfections contrasting with his flawless beauty. His gaze crunches in confusion, catching sight of my hand. Dammit, I forgot about it.
Transfixed, he traces it until I awkwardly lower it next to my side, my cheeks flaming in embarrassment.
“May I?” he requests, extending his palm toward me.
Curious about what he’ll do, I place it in his palm. A deep slash runs down my palm and ends a few inches above my wrist. His finger pads gently trace the edges, and my breath hitches inside my chest. I gasp, shocked by the way my body comes alive at the contact.
“A scar of a warrior,” he states, and I blink, retracting my hand.
