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It was that Emma couldn’t bring herself to care.
Not even the tiniest bit.
Chapter 7
There was a knock at Alex’s office door.
“Yeah?” he called.
“Boss.”
He glanced up to see Cole Sharpe standing in his doorway. Not who he’d expected.
“Where’s Jake?” Alex asked.
Cole entered the office uninvited and ambled toward Alex’s desk with the easy stroll of a man who never hurried anywhere. Why would he? Everything came to him. The prime stories. The prime women . . .
“Jake Malone,” Cole answered, picking up Alex’s stapler and clicking it a few times as he sat down, “was last seen entering the stairwell.”
“The stairwell?” Alex leaned back in his chair, not following.
“You know . . . to meet Grace?” Cole said, wiggling his eyebrows.
Alex clicked his pen. “They do that a lot?”
“Maybe,” Cole said, reaching across the desk and snagging a PowerBar Alex had never gotten around to eating. “Why, got some voyeuristic tendencies?”
Actually, Alex couldn’t care less whether one of his top columnists was copulating with his new bride in the stairwell, but he and Jake did have a meeting scheduled.
And Alex needed Jake’s advice.
More specifically, he needed Jake’s wife’s advice.
But Jake wasn’t here, and Cole was, so . . .
“I don’t suppose you’ve heard about me taking over Stiletto for a few months?” Alex asked.
“Of course I heard that,” Cole said around a bite of PowerBar.
Alex threw up his hands. “How? How did you hear that? You don’t even work here full-time.”
Despite Alex’s best efforts, Cole Sharpe insisted on maintaining his contractor status. He was Oxford’s best sports columnist by a long shot. He had connections in the NFL, NBA, NHL . . . college sports, high school sports, you name it.
Alex was dying to get Cole on an exclusive basis, but so far the man had clung hard and fast to his freelancer status. As far as Alex could tell, Cole Sharpe wasn’t the type of man to settle down in any aspect of his life. Tall, broad shouldered, with the slightly scruffy good looks of a Hollywood romantic comedy hero, he managed his career like he did his women:
Enthusiastically and noncommittally.
Still, Cole’s reputation with women might be exactly what Alex needed.
There was an enormous stack on the corner of Alex desk. He pulled it toward him and rapped the papers with his fist. “You know what this is?”
Cole glanced at the stack. “Your diary?”
“Stiletto articles,” Alex said, thumping the papers again. “Page after page about exfoliants and multiple orgasms and lipstick.”
Cole leaned forward and reached out a hand. “Lemme see the orgasm bit.”
Alex ignored him, pulling a sheet of paper from the top and shaking it. “This one is two thousand words about push-up bras. About the brands, and the way they should fit, and listen to this: ‘The trick with the appeal of push-up bras is to know what kind of guy you’re dealing with. Is he visual? If so, he’s not going to mind that you had a little help to achieve that fantastic cleavage. But if he’s more tactile, you might want to consider skipping all that padding. . . . He wants to feel the real you.’’’
