Page 12 of Scooped


Font Size:  

“My neighbor’s daughter must have done that last night,” I say as I decline Spencer’s call. I’m not ready to give him a breakdown on project Trojan Mustache just yet. “She borrows it to play Scrabble and then changes my ringtones to the most embarrassing things possible. It’s part of a prank war she started when she was eight and decided a wo-working, um…” I clear my throat with a nervous laugh. “A working guy living alone needed a kid influence in his life.”

Shoot, I almost said “woman living alone.”

I almost blew it five freaking minutes into my first day!

“Prank war, huh?” Rictor grunts. “I think it’s safe to say the kid won.”

“Well, I think it’s cute,” a rosy-cheeked brunette I don’t remember meeting last week pipes up from near the snack machine. “It’s sweet that you’re good with kids. Shows character.”

“I don’t know that I’m good with kids in general,” I confess. “But Sonia’s a good friend. Her other dad passed away a few years ago, and since then our whole floor has chipped in to help Spencer out. Being a single parent isn’t easy anywhere, I’m sure, but it seems extra hard here in the city.”

More murmurs of appreciation fill the air and one woman presses a hand to her heart as she announces, “That’s it. I’ve got my new favorite broker. Anything you need, Eric, you let me know. I work support for Bruce Maddox and Kyle Hershman, but I can always fit you into my schedule.”

Cheeks flushing with embarrassment, I thank her and excuse myself, fleeing the room without coffee while Rictor glares at me with thinly disguised contempt for my less-than-manly display. Back at my desk, I settle in with headphones and the Seyfried & Holt orientation video queued up on my computer, determined to get back on track and stay under the radar.

I’m here to blend in, bear witness, and bring back observations from the front lines of the gender-inequality war, none of which is going to happen if I blow my cover on my first day.

Thankfully, the rest of the morning passes peaceably, and I spend my lunch hour in a booth at the back of a nearby Russian bistro, eating spine-strengthening red cabbage soup and steeling myself for another five hours of manliness.

But I probably should’ve eaten two orders. By the time the two o’clock meeting rolls around, I’m already drained.

I’ve underestimated how exhausting it would be to micromanage every move, every breath, every word and non-verbal response, from the way I laugh to the sound I make when I bang my knee—hard—on the metal leg of the conference table.

My high-pitched yip of agony goes mostly unnoticed in the chaos as people settle in for the meeting, but Jack’s sharp green gaze shifts my way, his lips twisting with disapproval. I smile reflexively—my usual anxious, Jack’s-in-my-vicinity grin—before I remember to be manly and take my grinning down a notch.

But the anxiety triggered by Jack’s glare remains.

It’s the first time I’ve seen him since our one-on-one time in his office yesterday, and for some reason I can’t stop staring at his hands. At his fingers, to be precise, those strong, capable fingers that so gently pressed my mustache into place while Jack’s body heat made my skin flush beneath my ill-fitting suit and Jack’s unique scent bloomed in the air around me, a heady mix of eucalyptus, fennel, and a spicy, clean scent that makes my mouth water.

The man smells good enough to eat.

Or at least to lick.

To lick all over, up and down, until I’ve explored every inch of his tanned, toned, utterly delicious—

“I’d also like to welcome Eric Webb to the team,” Jack says, motioning my way.

I flinch in my chair—mustpay attention and stop thinking about licking my fake boss, who isevery bitas off-limits as if he were my real boss,if not more so—and lift a hand, wiggling my fingers. “Thanks. Excited to be here.”

“Excited to have you.” Jack’s frown belies the words of welcome. He’s clearly not thrilled about his role in my sting operation, but I do my best to ignore his grumpiness and hope my coworkers will do the same.

I cross my legs and snatch a pen from the middle of the table, ready to take notes and contribute to the best of my ability. But focusing isn’t easy when Jack keeps shooting judgmental, disapproving, and even one vaguely nauseated look in my direction, making me wonder if other people can smell my icky glue stink. I thought I was the only one suffering, because it’s literally right under my nose, but maybe I was wrong.

Thankfully, Jack guides the meeting with a steady hand, and by the time three o’clock rolls around, he’s sending everyone back to work with a “good job team, keep it up.”

Snatching my notepad from the table—my loopy, flourish-filled cursive might be a lady-tell, now that I think about it—I leap to my feet and start for the door, only to hear Jack’s deep voice call my fake name.

“Webb, meet me in my office in five.”

I turn to face him, mortified by the pity that flashes across the faces of the two men easing around me to get to the door.

Why is he calling me out on my first day? Drawing attention to me when the best thing for my article is to draw as little focus as possible?

I’m about to ask him these exact questions—under my breath, of course—when he pauses in front of me and says in a husky whisper, “Your mustache is slipping. Again.”

My fingers fly to my lip. I adjust it as best I can and mumble, “I’ll put some more glue on in the bathroom.”

“Do that, and then come to my office. Immediately. Do not pass go, do not flounce to the break room for coffee, do not—”

Source: www.allfreenovel.com
Articles you may like