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Alex let the paper flutter to the desk in horror. “I just . . . I can’t even.”
Cole shook his head. “They’ve got it all wrong. We’re visual and tactile. Do you have a red pen? Write that down in the margins.”
Alex ignored him, continuing to shuffle through the papers, reading the headlines. “‘The Lipstick Trend You’ve Got to Try.’ ‘Runway Accents You Can Actually Wear.’ ‘Is Anal the New Oral?’”
Cole stopped chewing. “Wait. Let me see that last one. Seriously? They can write that? Why doesn’t Oxford write that?”
“We do write that,” Alex muttered, tugging on his lip as he studied the papers. “Maybe you should read something other than the sports section of your own magazine sometime.”
Cole resumed chewing. “So while I’m dealing with the stench of the Yankees locker room to get my story, some other guy’s research is sex? I demand a job swap.”
“You’ll have to talk to Lincoln Mathis about that,” Alex said, referring to Oxford’s current expert on all things women. “But do it later. I need help.”
“Wondering if you can pull off the latest lipstick trend?” Cole asked, popping the rest of the PowerBar into his mouth.
Alex reached across the desk to snatch up the discarded wrapper and drop it into the trash can. He looked pointedly at the crumbs on the desk, and Cole rolled his eyes and swiped the crumbs onto the ground. “Well, aren’t you fastidious? I’m guessing you’re not into anal or oral. Too messy?”
Alex didn’t dignify that with a response. “How am I supposed to evaluate these articles? How do I know what’s good and what’s not? I don’t give a crap about mascara types or juice cleanses, but if these stories go to press and they’re shit, it’s on me.”
Cole leaned back in his chair. “How many of the Oxford articles do you read?”
“Every single one.”
Cole blanched. “Seriously?”
“That’s what an editor in chief does, Sharpe. We look at the issue in its entirety. Make sure it doesn’t suck.”
“And you’re supposed to do the same with Stiletto?”
“Apparently.”
“Why didn’t Camille find a woman to do this shit?”
“I have no fucking clue,” Alex said, slumping back in his chair and putting his hands over his face. “It’s like she hates me.”
“Why’d you agree to do it?”
It was a fair question. And one that Alex didn’t have a good answer to.
Ordinarily, he didn’t have trouble saying no to anyone—not even Camille with her drill sergeant persona.
He’d like to say he agreed because Camille’s logic made sense; she’d pointed out that finding someone with editor-in-chief experience on a short-term basis was nearly impossible. True. She’d also pointed out that he already had a relationship with the higher-ups and could go to bat for Stiletto if needed.
But he wasn’t sure any of those were the real reasons Camille had pushed the task on him.
And he definitely wasn’t sure that was the reason he’d accepted.
As though reading his thoughts, Cole smirked. “What’s Emma’s story?”
“Hmm?” Alex asked, carefully keeping his expression blank.
Cole nodded patiently at the stack of Stiletto articles. “Emma Sinclair. What’d she write about?”
Alex was about to shrug, but Cole stopped him with a look. “Don’t even pretend you don’t know.”
Alex sighed and rifled through the papers until he came across Emma’s, flinging it across the desk. Cole glanced at it and then looked up.
“‘The Lost Art of the Blind Date’?” Cole asked. “You have a real chance to get inside your ex’s head, and you let her write about her date with another dude?”
