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He’s also an insufferable douchebag who is known for his crazy socks, which is fucking random. Naturally, I prefer not to be anywhere near him. But I can’t blow off my boss.
I push open the conference room door, and everyone looks my way, including Levi and his agent, Henry Monroe. I’ve seen these guys around the office a few times since we acquired Levi’s books, and suffered through a couple book-signing readings of his pretentious prose, which the whole company is unfortunately required to turn out for. Gotta be a team player and all that.
So glad I don’t have to deal with these literary snobs.
And I’m sure they’re glad they don’t have to deal with me either, in the firm’s lowly romance division, a place snobs like them love to look down on.
“Cam,” I say, remaining in the doorway, “what can I do for you?”
Hell if I’m not the epitome of professional when I need to be.
“Amalia, hey, can you bring Levi and Henry some coffee please?”
Huh? Did he just ask me to bring these creeps coffee?
As if I didn’t earn an English lit degree from one of the country’s top universities, the student loans for which I am still struggling to pay.
As if I didn’t graduate with honors.
As if I were some freaking administrative assistant—no shade on admins—rather than someone tasked with uncovering the literary talent that will keep Empire at the top of New York publishing.
Getcoffee?
The fucking fuck.
He must have seen the dismay on my face because he backpedaled, something he does only when he has an audience. “Unless you’re in the middle of something. Ya know?”
Yeah, I’m in the middle of something. Like thinking of how much cyanide is needed to poison your scrawny little ass.
Is he that unaware of the trigger that’s pulled when you ask a woman in your office to ‘go fetch coffee,’ like she’s some freaking 1950’s housewife?
Or is that exactly why he’s doing it?
“No problem, Cam,” I say with a sweet smile. “Be right back.”
“Hey, I’d like one too,” he calls after me.
Oh, how I’d like to spit in his coffee. In fact, I give myself a moment to gather all the saliva in my mouth that I can.
But I don’t do it. I can be a crazy bitch, but I’m not that bad.
At least not today.
I return with three coffees on a tray, the mysterious manuscript still tucked under my arm.
“Thanks, Amalia,” Cameron says.
“Yes, thank you, Amalia,” Levi says. I see he’s wearing pink and green striped socks. Freak.
His sidekick nods his appreciation.
And if I’m not wrong, I swear that fucker is checking out my ass.
Perv.
“You’re welcome,” I sing.
I’m about to ask in the most snarky tone possible if there’s anything else I can fetch for them but stop myself. I need this job. I was already fired once this year. I can’t afford to be again, at least if I can help it.
