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This feels naughty, reading steam on company time. On the other hand, itismy job. And if it weren’t for my shitty boss Cameron, it could be a good, maybe even great job.
How many people get to read sexy shit at work and get paid for it? It’s a dream job for someone like me who is in the midst of the biggest sexual dry spell in history.
I flip the manuscript pages closed and run my thumb over the big staples running down its side. I shove the whole thing back into its envelope, as if that might stop the trembling of my inner thighs.
It doesn’t work.
I want more. I need more.
I get my ass off the floor and into my chair before I attract the attention of anyone, and slide the manuscript back out of its envelope, slowly and gingerly, like it’s freaking gold. Which it kind of is.
I flip through the bound pages like I do any other book we receive from an author’s agent, and the damn thing just keeps getting hotter. And hotter.
I go back to the cover page to see who sent it and all it says is Ryder Night. A quick Google search turns up no one and nothing with that name.
It’s impossible. Who would submit a manuscript without contact information? What would be the point? How the hell can it be published if no one claims the damn thing?
I think for a moment.
Wearelooking for new books to acquire, as Cameron reminded me this morning.
Could I take this to him for consideration?
And might that secure my place as a valuable contributor to the future of Empire Ink Press?
Visions of massive success dance through my imagination.
I could be the acquiring editor who saves not only the romance division, but also the entire company. There would be promotions, raises, a private office, and maybe even a bonus when the book tops the charts.
And the kudos and endless thanks that come my way? Non-stop. Everyone will love and respect Amalia Plum, who, by the way, has only been with the companysix freaking months.
How could they not?
I’m golden. I know it. I’ve stumbled onto something that not only has got my motor revving because it’s hot and dirty as fuck, but also will save my sorry ass from the company chopping block.
3
AMALIA
I runstraight for Cameron’s office, but not before touching up my red lipstick and tucking in the tank top I’m wearing under my purple lace shirt. I pull up my socks, which are sinking down into my combat boots, and fluff my hair. Armed with confidence, I get to his office, the one with incredible views of uptown Manhattan, and find he’s nowhere to be seen.
My boner starts to go limp.
I consider asking someone who sits near him if they know where he’s gone—he’s got to be back from his mani-pedi by now—but don’t want to tip anyone off. It won’t pay for people to ask why I’m suddenly so cheerful, skipping around the office like I work in a normal place for a normal boss. So, I walk the periphery of the office to see if he’s tormenting any of my coworkers, and find him in the glassed-in conference room, meeting with one of our biggest up-and-coming authors, the haughty dickwad poster child of ‘new fiction’, Levi Maverick.
Apparently, that’s his real name.
Levi.
Maverick.
I snicker every time I see it in writing and would love to tell him he ought to be writing westerns.
I turn on my heel before any of them can see me, but not fast enough before Cameron raises his hand and waves me into the meeting. When he realizes I’m pretending not to see him, he waves wildly. I’m busted.
What the hell? I don’t work with Levi. The guy writes high falutin’ literary fiction, not romance, and besides, Cameron saves the superstar writers for himself.
And Levi is a superstar. An up-and-comer, to be sure, but a superstar.
