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“And not my usual fare,” Grace continued. “Something—”
“Tight? Low-cut? Ass-hugging?” Riley asked.
Grace tapped a finger against her lips, picturing Jake Malone’s face when she showed up wearing something other than the dowdy corporate uniform he was expecting.
“You know, Ri,” she said slowly, “I’m thinking all of the above.”
Chapter Three
Jake Malone liked to think he was an easygoing guy.
He didn’t get overly worked up over sports. (Well, except the Packers, but that wasn’t a sports team so much as a way of life.)
Jake didn’t mind when a woman ordered a salad, low-fat dressing on the side, and then proceeded to polish off his onion rings. He actually thought that was kind of hot.
He didn’t even mind crying women. He never understood men who were terrified of a few female tears. Maybe it was a side effect of having four sisters, but Jake wasn’t ashamed to admit that he’d never been able to walk away from a woman whose chin was doing that pre-cry wobble.
And the sight of long female lashes spiky with tears made him want to fight the whole world and make it better.
Not that Jake Malone was a softy. No. If he were, he would have capitulated when those same female tears were intended to maneuver him one step closer to the altar. He knew enough to hold a woman when she cried. He also knew enough to walk away when tears turned to anger and manipulation.
But all things considered, Jake was a pretty tolerant guy.
Case in point? He didn’t even mind when the company he’d worked for for six years brought in a new editor in chief who was all of eighteen days older than Jake. (Thank you, Google.) Well he didn’t mind much.
What he did mind was said boss issuing orders on what stories Jake should be writing.
Particularly when the story was completely bogus.
“I’m not following,” Jake said, drumming his fingers against his leg in irritation. “If you want to get in good with Camille Bishop, why don’t you buy her whatever cigarettes she’s always smoking like a damned chimney? Or a case of whatever turbo-strength product keeps her orange hair in place?”
Alex Cassidy leaned back in his cushy chair and folded his fingers over his torso, looking more like the star college soccer player he used to be rather than the high-powered magazine executive he was now.
It wasn’t that Jake wanted Cassidy’s position. Editor in chief had never been his goal. Too many politics. Too much ass kissing.
But that didn’t mean Jake was content being a run-of-the-mill reporter to be bossed around by Mr. Wunderkind here.
Jake had every intention of being somebody.
The trouble was, everyone else expected that too.
It all started when his third-grade teacher (probably pleased by the suck-up apple he’d brought her earlier that day) had told his parents he was “as talented as he was driven.”
His parents had already known this, of course. They told him all the time.
They told him when he made the all-star baseball team, when he was top of his reading group, and when he’d been asked to solo in their church’s children’s choir group. You’re going places, Jakey.
His teens had been a muddle of varsity sports, student council, honor roll, and prom king. Topped off nicely with the usual yearbook crap: Jake Malone, Most Likely to Succeed.
No pressure.
But he had succeeded. At least at first.
He’d graduated at the top of his journalism class from the University of Florida and taken his Hearst Journalism Award Finalist plaque all the way to New York City with every intention of taking the journalism world by storm.
For the first few years, he’d gone out of his way to remain a free agent, preferring the flexibility to write for whomever he wanted, to say nothing of the amazing travel opportunities.
And although he’d never admit it out loud, Jake had loved telling his parents that he was off to Hong Kong or Kiev or Rio almost as much as his parents had loved bragging to their friends about it. Almost.
