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But I’m not ridiculous—I’m taking risks to get a unique angle on this story—and I’m not going to let fear win.
I’ve got this. I’m wearing a new suit that fits where it should and sits low enough on my hips to hide my curves. My wig is Broadway quality, borrowed from the best costume-designing neighbor in the world, who also agreed to part with his second-best fake mustache—as opposed to the fourth-best ’stache I wore yesterday.
Having a neighbor who has a collection of fake mustaches—and the skill with cosmetics to teach me how to work masculine magic on my face—is a sign that my plan is destined to succeed. Jack only saw through my disguise because he’s known me for years and yesterday’s attempt was admittedly half-assed.
But today, I’m ready.
I’m a testosterone-fueled man-beast ready to take my new office by storm! Grr!
Rolling my shoulders back, I suck in as deep a breath as possible with two elastic bandages squishing my breasts into pancakes, ignore the dead-animal stink of the super-powerful spirit gum holding my smaller, less porn-tastic mustache in place, and step out into the S&H reception area.
But after getting up an hour early to put on my man face, all I can think about now is an extra-large cup of coffee.
The underling break room is a simpler affair than the executive lounge where my brother and the higher ups recharge, but still far swankier than any water-cooler situation I encountered in my years of working in a newsroom. There is a full kitchen, two stainless steel refrigerators, the Cheetos-less organic snack machine, a variety of seating options, and a gourmet coffee station that puts Starbucks to shame, complete with everything I need to make a caramel latte.
Now to find my way through the crowd swarming the machine and figure out how to work the milk frothing thingamajiggy…
“Hey, new guy.” Hannah, Jack’s assistant, a curvy, freckled redhead with kind brown eyes smiles as I sidle up to the coffee queue. “Eric, right?”
I nod, dropping my pitch as low as I can manage. “Yeah. Nice to see you again, Hannah.”
Her brows bob in surprise. “You, too. You’re good with names, I see.”
“I try to be.” I smile my new, careful smile. Men, especially financial sector men, don’t smile as widely as women, and caution is good for keeping the mustache in place.
“That’ll serve you well, but don’t be afraid to ask if you forget someone. It’s a big office, and we’ve all been the newbie.” She laughs before gesturing toward the break room door. “And remember, I’m down the hall if you need anything. Jack asked me to keep an eye on you, make sure you get settled in okay.”
“That was nice of him,” I say, figuring now is as good a time as any to start putting out my undercover feelers. I asked around last week, but people weren’t inclined to dish with the boss’s sister. Now that I’m a peer, I’m hoping they’ll be more loose-lipped. “Jack seems like a fun person to work for. I’m looking forward to being part of his team.”
Hannah’s smile widens. “He is fun. Fair, too, which isn’t always a given.”
Before I can ask what she means, a seal-bark of laughter sounds from the door. “No,youget the hell out,” Rictor shouts, jabbing his thick finger at someone farther down the hall. “Yeah, I do kiss your mother with this mouth. Ask her.” Still guffawing, Rictor swaggers into the room. “Hey there, Hannah Banana. Any almond milk in here? The lounge is out.”
“Why don’t you open the fridge and check, Stephen,” she says, her lips tightening at the edges. “And meet Eric while you’re at it. He’s the new broker.”
Rictor thrusts an arm into the air between us as his eyes sweep my frame. But his gaze is calculating, not speculating, giving me my first taste of the difference between being Ellie and being Eric.
Ellie had her boobs checked out and was complimented on her skirt. Eric gets a firm handshake and a, “Great to have you on board, man. What’s your specialty?”
As I roll through my spiel about emerging technologies, Hannah backs toward the door with a wiggle of her fingers.
I stop mid-sentence to wave and say, “Thank you, Hannah. I appreciate the welcome.”
“My pleasure,” she says before stepping out into the hall and the salmon run of people hurrying to get to their desks before the stock exchange opens.
Rictor grunts out a laugh as he crosses to the fridge. “Don’t even think about it, bro. She looks like a firecracker, but under all that ginger, she’s cold as ice.”
“Excuse me?” I turn to him with a frown.
“Getting in her pants,” Rictor clarifies, his voice low. “It’s a no-fly zone down there, I promise. Better men than you have tried.”
My jaw drops. I can’t believe he’s taking the conversationtherenot thirty seconds after meeting me—and with six other employees, most of them women, standing less than four feet away at the coffee machine.
I’m still trying to figure out how “Eric” responds to stuff like this, when my butt begins to vibrate. “Barbie Girl” by Aqua blasts from the speakers, filling the break room with a sugary-pink pop song so girly I might as well rip off my pants and prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that I’m in possession of a vagina.
I struggle to pull my phone from my tiny back pocket, sweat breaking out beneath my fake ’stache. Finally, I wrestle my cell free and silence the pop-abomination amidst giggles from the women stirring creamer into their coffees a few feet away.
“Got a thing for Barbie, huh?” Rictor casts serious side-eye my direction.
