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“Really?” She tipped her head.
Of course, he lied on the job application. On his resume when he signed up at the temporary employment agency, WorkForce. His real resume, the one he’d sent hundreds of copies of around the country, was the absolute truth. But he’d been desperate for a job, so he lied.
“I graduated with a communications degree,” he told her. “The only job I’ve been able to find since then is stocking shelves at Figs & Pigs.”
“Figs and—” Sloane swung her legs over the side of the settee and tossed her pizza in the open box on the low, glass-topped table in front of her. “Is that, like, slang for…I don’t even know. Forks and pork?”
“No. It’s a trendy fresh food market. I had to wear a bowtie every day. And I answered questions about alfalfa sprouts, chickpeas, jackfruit—you name it. I’m a meat and potatoes guy, I avoid greens, and I don’t know jack about fruits. Not to mention, I’m tired of working weekends, my boss there was so uptight, he probably could have squeezed diamonds out of his butt, and I didn’t have benefits.”
Sloane studied him for a moment.
“What color was it?”
“What?”
“The bowtie? What color?”
“Lime green,” he mumbled.
Sloane snorted, but she was quick to cover her mouth, apparently hoping he would think it was a cough.
“Seriously? I tell you something traumatic, and you laugh?”
“Was there, like, a whole uniform? Or just the bowtie?”
“Are you suggesting that I stocked shelves in a bowtie and nothing else?”
She rolled her eyes, but the grin on her face was a win.
“Black pants. White button-down shirts. And lime green bowties.”
“Interesting.” She scooted forward and reached for her bottled water. “What’s your dream job?”
“You mean, aside from taxing my brain with numbers and math all day and night?”
She held his stare for a long, quiet moment. Finally, Jed groaned and cocked his head at her.
“Did you see what I did there?”
“I did.” She nodded, the hint of a smile on her face again.
“I wanted to go into broadcasting.”
“News?”
“Sports.”
“Ah.” This time her nod looked a little smug.
“What?”
“Nothing.” She shrugged. “I should have expected that, I guess.”
“What does that mean?”
“Communications. Broadcasting.” She shook her head. “Nothing.”
“You’re being sexist. Stereotyping me because I’m a guy, and I like sports.”
