My interview with Easterly Ribbon is several days off, and that’s all he wants from me.
I tell myself I’m relieved.
And I’m going to keep telling myself that until I believe it, dammit.
Still...day after day, I crack.
I always peek up from whatever I’m doing, my notepad full of hasty scribbles and jittery scraggles where I keep breaking my pencil lead. Always just in time to see him bowed over printed spreads with his senior editorial team, or bending over someone’s desk making corrections to a comp, or standing just outside his office door with the older man I’ve learned from Wanda is the head of the company’s legal team and a frequent visitor.
Every time I catch him standing trim and regal in his unholy suits, his expression set in tense, lined concentration like a hunter sighting prey, my heart skips.
Oddly.
Horribly.
Ridiculously.
It’s the surprise of seeing him, that’s all.
Just the surprise, I tell myself, when I try to push him out of my mind.
Right. Try.
Every glimpse should be a harsh reminder that I despise this man more than decaf.
Oh, and the prick never spares me a glance.
It should feel better than that rude, invasive habit he has of just staring at me.
Guess what? It doesn’t.
Although it would be amusing to see the surprise on his face if he did deign to look down from his mighty perch at his peasant editor.
On a whim, yesterday I touched up my hair with icy blue highlights. They stand out starkly in little ribbons of brightness against the red of my hair.
I loved the blue in Easterly’s hair so much I figured it couldn’t hurt to experiment a little myself, even if it makes daily color coordination harder.
Besides.
It’s not like I want Roland to notice it.
I don’t care if he sees me as a church mouse or not.
I also don’t care one bit that my hair’s been blue for three whole days now, and he hasn’t so much as noticed at all.
I like it that way.
That’s all that matters.
“Miss Landry.” My name flicks at me like a whip.
I jerk up, blinking.
Oh.
I’ve been sitting here watching Osprey across the room while he was huddled with Aaron, the head of graphic design. His dark head bowed, his expression intent, his vest so perfectly tailored I can practically trace the muscles flowing from his broad chest and slinking into his waist.
Meanwhile, Wanda the EA has been talking at me. I’m supposed to pay attention as she rambles on about The Tea’s long-tail strategy for monetizing older, evergreen content.
She’s not talking now.
She’s staring at me above the rims of her glasses, her steely eyes dark with something unreadable, her lips vanishing into a thin line.
My heart flips shamefully inside my chest.
I tug at my scarf, a sassy sky-blue that matches my hair today.
“Sorry, Wanda, what were you saying?”
“That depends on where you stopped listening, considering I’ll have to repeat myself,” she snaps.
Ouch. I deserve that.
My face burns with mortification.
So much for building myself up as the ever-attentive star editor.
I’m just making more work for poor Wanda right now.
“Sorry,” I repeat sheepishly.
She looks at me coldly for a second longer, then relents—barely—with a sigh.
“I should expect it by now. You’re hardly the first to sprout a crush on Mr. Osprey. Many in this office—female and male alike—think he’s the second coming of Casanova. But—” She points her pen at me sharply. “They know better than to act on it. If they want to thrive here, they keep their feelings in check. Consider this a reminder that workplace relationships are highly unethical, regardless of your reasons.”
I can’t miss that stress on your, as if she thinks I’m...I don’t even know.
Gold digging after a rich guy? Fame digging? Promotion digging?
Oh, God.
I wish I could fall through the floor and disappear.
But I also wonder if I’m imagining her stress on unethical, too. I have to ask myself just how much Osprey confides in her about talks with other employees.
Then again, does it matter?
Does anything when I’ve got this bulldog of a woman looking at me like she’s seen it all before and she’d love to just light me on fire and be done with it?
Nahhh.
What matters is getting my head back in the game and focused on my job.
It’s not hard to tell Wanda doesn’t like me, and she’s freaky protective of her boss.
I can’t understand the former, but I guess I don’t blame her for the latter.
Regardless of my personal opinion of Roland Osprey, which ranks him lower than an Antarctic scale worm, I need to remember I’m here to work.
Wanda isn’t totally wrong for calling me out.
Instead of getting defensive, I muster up my best apologetic smile.
“Sorry again. I promise I’m not gunning for the boss,” I say, and damn it, that needs to be true. “Honestly, he rubs me the wrong way. We kinda got off on the wrong foot. I guess I’m holding a little grudge and I know I need to stop. But really, are office flames something you need to worry about? I mean, he must have supermodels dangling on him like ornaments. Not to mention half the staff could be contestants on America’s Next Top Model. Why would he even look at me and feed a dumb crush?”