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It was one of the first chilly days of fall, so today I swapped out my rotation of office-appropriate sundresses for a corduroy skirt and a black turtleneck.
I covered the tattoos on my hands with a couple of rings, and tossed my long, curly hair into a messy bun. The refill for my contacts was still on back order, so I framed my blue eyes with clear glasses.
“What? Am I fired?” I joked only partially.
“No, never. You’re my favorite co-worker. It’s just, you know, the MPA conference in a couple of weekends?”
Nora and I had been planning a luxurious, literary weekend away at the Midwest Publishers Association conference since the line-up was announced last Spring.
This week, as the newest hire at Wrought Iron Publishing, I was stuck fielding children’s book queries.
While children’s literature was far from my genre of choice, part of me hoped I would be able to help inspire the next generation, which brings me back to my excitement for the conference.
“Yes…”
“I can’t go.”
“You’re kidding me!”
“I wish I was, but my sister literally just had her baby yesterday and my mom and I are driving down to the suburbs to stay with her for the first two weeks.” Nora looked genuinely bummed.
“I guess you can ditch me, but only because you’re the world’s greatest aunt.”
“I have a reputation to keep up. Thanks for understanding.”
“Wait, does this mean I get to go to the conference alone?” Already I was dreaming of a luxurious weekend with a hotelroom to myself and unlimited access to the brightest minds in literature.
“No, someone else will be with you.” Nora's nervous tell was evident as she bit her bottom lip.
“Who is it?”
“Leo,” Nora blurted. She barely got the word out of her mouth before I let out an audible groan.
Leo Cacciatore was not only my boss, but the most pompous jerk that I had ever had the displeasure of knowing.
At 45 years old, Leo got away with his outdated belief that literature was a bona fide boys’ club by using his movie-star good looks and amicable demeanor.
He was known to charm even the most obstinate and possessive post-modern greats into handing over one last great manuscript.
My coworkers called him a “titan” but if you ask me, the phrase, “a misogynistic bag of dicks” would be a more accurate representation.
“Nora, no!”
“I’m so sorry. He overheard me saying that I couldn’t go, and he volunteered to take my place. I couldn’t say no! He’s basically in charge of us.”
“Nora, I would rather scoop my eyeballs out using a melon baller than spend an extended period of time with him!” I hissed.
“Glad to see that you hold me in such high regard, Jones,” Leo snuck up behind me, and my face immediately reddened.
Here’s the thing about Leo. He may be a jerk, but his physical appearance is nothing short of mesmerizing—he could easily be mistaken for a Greek god carved in marble.
He’s got that whole superhero jawline and sparkling blue eyes combination going, not that I’ve ever noticed that or the way you can see the outline of his biceps through his dress shirts.
“I didn’t mean—”
He turned to Nora, “So I see you told Jones about our little road trip. Come on Jones, no need to look so glum. It’s not a funeral procession. We’ll be gone for less than forty-eight hours. It’ll be fun. Ever heard of it?”
“Yes, Leo, just because my definition of fun doesn’t involve an eight-ball of speed and a gaggle of Russian strippers doesn’t mean I’ve never heard of fun.”
