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We have zero new clients coming in and the only bright side to all of this embarrassment is that our old clients are standing with us. It can’t be easy being affiliated with an allegedly fraudulent business, but they are reaping lots of benefits from our services and no one wants to destabilize their progress over a dirty rumor.
This morning, I realize we need a new, targeted approach at re-facing our company in the media. Everything we’re trying hasn’t been working and we’re just giving the trolls brand new ways to re-damage our reputation each time. We haven’t put out any new campaigns in a while and things have died down a bit, but we need to re-surge and try a different tactic.
Getting up from my desk, I head straight to Charlee’s office to discuss the plans.
We’ve barely seen each other since the last time we made passionate love in her office. It’s like she glows brighter after each time we make love. This is weird for me. I’m not usually interested this long after the first sex. What is it about this woman that has my brain in a chokehold?
Knocking lightly on her door, I breeze in, hands in my pockets in case they decide to start trembling.
Charlee is not on her seat or anywhere in the office.
For the first time, I take my time to really observe her space. She hasn’t personalized it that much. The office is almost as it was when it was first assigned to her, save for a framed silhouette picture on the wall of a girl holding a tiny bird. Another framed picture of an elderly couple sits on her desk. The woman has the same auburn hair as Charlee, although the color is no longer as bright as hers. The man’s facial features are exactly replicated in Charlee. These are obviously her parents and they make a stunning couple.
A lavender-scented candle is burning on the shelf and the aroma fills the room, instantly relaxing my nerves.
Approaching her table, my eye catches something open on her desk.
It’s her personal tablet and there are rows of book covers spattered all across on the screen. In some of the pictures, couples are either romantically kissing or necking, or straining on beds tangled in white bed sheets.
Romance novels.
I don’t want to snoop around her personal stuff but I can’t help it. Picking up the tablet, I’m surprised by what I find.
It’s a Kindle account with self-published books, all belonging to Charlee. She’s writing under a pen name but the account is in her real name. I’m looking through the blurbs of about a dozen books, all published by her, and I can’t believe my eyes. These look like intensely erotic and thrilling romances with happily-ever-afters.
Charlee, a romance writer? Talk about a woman full of tasty mysteries.
“What are you doing?”
Charlee is back in her office and right behind me. Her voice sounds accusatory. She hasn’t seen the tablet in my hand yet.
Turning slowly to face her, I flash her a smile I know is coming off as mischievous. It takes her a moment, but then she lunges forward and grabs the tablet from me. Like clockwork, her face turns the brightest tomato shade I’ve seen on her so far.
“You shouldn’t be going through people’s stuff like that,” she says, bending her head as she walks around to assume her seat.
“Uh, you left the door open and it was right there.” I know I’m being a jerk but I’m loving her reaction. She tucks non-existent strands of hair behind her ears at the same time and assumes her defensive pose.
I don’t know what has come over me, but I’m slowly walking around to her side of the desk, settling on the table a hair’s breath away from her.
“Would you share some of your book links with me? I’d like to purchase them to read in my spare time,” I say, making sure my gaze never leaves her face. Not that I could stare anywhere else anyway.
“No.” She’s trying to be mean but it comes off cute and shy.
I can tell she’s embarrassed, and now I’m feeling a little guilty. I reach out and lightly touch her face, letting my thumb rub the soft corner close to her lips. I know I shouldn’t be doing this, but I can’t help it. Writing is her guilty pleasure. Being around her ismyguilty pleasure. It’s fucked up but I can’t control it.
“Hey, Charlee, don’t be embarrassed. I think this is pretty amazing. You have so many books published and your hobby is turning into something real and solid. I love that.” I mean every word and I think she believes me, because her face breaks into a cheerful smile.
“How long have you been writing?” I ask, still touching her face. She doesn’t seem to mind.
“Since I was a teenager. I have so many unpublished manuscripts,” she says.
She starts telling me about a few of her favorite tropes and character trends. She gets carried away, because I’m not sure she means to say it out loud that romance is her escape from real life.
“I live through my characters and their settings. Real life is a massive disappointment but with fiction, you can make anything happen.”
Her face goes red again immediately, and I’m struggling not to laugh. Charlee is so cute. She blushes a million times a day. Do women still blush these days?
“What if fiction becomes real life some day? All those happily-ever-afters that seem dramatic and impossible could actually happen.” She rolls her eyes at my words and I finally let out that laugh.
