According to my brother—and the media who flock his way whenever the financial markets are making waves—Jack is a top-notch investor with the instincts of a man with twice the experience. But I’ll never forget the Jack who got me stoned for the first time when I was twenty and then teased me mercilessly for the next two hours as I vacillated between laughing at his moaning zombie impression and clutching his arm in skin-crawling paranoia, terrified that my father was going to come downstairs and catch me being less than perfect.
And we won’t even go into how mortifying it was to eat an entire bag of Cheetos in front of a person who has probably never had orange fingertips in his life. Even in his early twenties, Jack was too classy for Cheetos.
“I know you don’t need a babysitter,” Ryan says. “But you do need someone to make sure people answer your questions. And I know you’re busting your ass with broker interviews, Jack, but surely you can spare some time. If members of our team are unhappy, I’d rather know about it sooner than later.”
“Unhappy?” Jack’s brow furrows as his gaze shifts my way. “Who’s unhappy?”
“That’s not something I’m ready to discuss.” I stand up straighter, tugging the bottom of my slightly-too-large red blouse down over the top of my a-bit-too-small pin-striped skirt, acutely aware of how dumpy I look compared to the custom-made suits in the room.
“This is coming out of left field, isn’t it?” Jack’s tone isn’t unkind, but I’m losing patience, and I have two minutes left to convince Ryan to let me do this my way—sans babysitter.
“No, it’s not coming out of left field,” I say. “It’s coming from the pitcher’s mound, straight at your head. You know why Stephen calls me slugger? Because I asked why there are no women in the office fantasy baseball league and he told me none of them were interested. And I said, ‘have you asked them?’ And he just laughed and said, ‘easy there, slugger,’ and the name stuck.”
Jack rolls a shoulder in something too elegant to be called a shrug. “Well, Rictor’s a dick. Everyone knows that.”
Ryan chuckles in agreement, making my blood pressure spike.
“It’s not about one random dick,” I say, my voice rising. “It’s about the very real fucking differences in the way men experience this office culture versus the women.”
Jack’s eyes narrow thoughtfully on my mouth. “I’ve never heard you curse before.”
“Well, I curse sometimes.” My lips prickle, a buzzing sensation that intensifies the longer Jack stares. “When I’m passionate about something.”
“Passionate is good,” Jack says in his whiskey voice. “I respect passion.”
“Good. That’s g-good,” I stammer, feeling twenty years old with Cheetos fingers again.
How does this man always manage to throw me off with no more than a word? A look? A blink of those snakeskin-green eyes that makes me feel like butterflies are dancing in my stomach?
Of course, I know why. It’s because he’s ridiculously sexy and I’m a lair-dwelling, loner writer weirdo who doesn’t spend enough time around attractive men—or any men who aren’t my neighbors or blood relatives, for that matter.
Jack would be so much easier to handle if I’d been that second son my father wanted.
But that’s the story of my life. If only I’d been a boy, Mom dying when I was a toddler and me being raised in a bachelor’s house—and everything that came after—would have been so much easier.
For everyone.
If only I’d been a boy…
An idea leaps suddenly into my brain, fully formed, like Athena ready to burst from Zeus’s forehead.
But unlike Athena, my idea doesn’t arrive draped in a Grecian tunic or carrying a brass shield. My idea is dressed in a three-piece suit and sporting a pair of swanky Italian leather dress shoes.
“So, it’s settled?” Ryan shoots Jack a look that leaves no room for argument.
“Sure,” Jack says, his gaze sliding my way. “We’ll start tomorrow, Ellie?”
I look up, so excited by my shiny new idea that I can’t help the giddy smile that spreads across my face. “Perfect.”
Oh, yes. We’ll start tomorrow, Jack. And you won’t know what hit you.
CHAPTER TWO
Jack
A man about to experience some highly
unexpected new feelings for
a co-worker’s moustache…
Day 2 Thursday 8/2
How is it that we’ve invented phones advanced enough to stream movies and order groceries with a single tap, but no one can sort out how to make the subway smell less like urine?
Will scientists colonize Mars in my lifetime?
Will subways on Mars still smell like pee?
If people eat asparagus on Mars and pee on the subway, will the subway smell like pee, or asparagus?
These are the mysteries I ponder as I stare across my mahogany desk, wondering if the guy I’m interviewing has any clue I’ve already voted him off the island.
“In conclusion,” Brian says, “by utilizing Six Sigma strategies, I was able to radically streamline our core business process, eradicating inefficiencies in our product development lifecycle and increasing revenues by nine percent.”
Nope. Not a clue.
“Impressive,” I say. “So, you’re a Six Sigma guy?”
“There’s no problem it can’t solve, and as a broker for Seyfried and Holt, I assure you, problem-solving would become my middle name.”
“What’s your middle name now?” I ask. Dick move, perhaps, but this is the seventh interview of the day, and each candidate has been as unimaginative as the one before. Blair was supposed to clear these guys in round one, sending me the cream of the crop.
But apparently she’s looking for docile and predictable, a guy who will toe the company line.
Me? I prefer a little fire.
“Forgive me. Terrible sense of humor,” I say, dialing it down. It’s not this poor guy’s fault I’m being blown off for lunch. No. That honor belongs to one Eleanor Seyfried, who hasn’t bothered to return a single one of my texts.
Ellie Seyfried—now there’s a problem Six Sigma can’t solve.
“Tell me more about your client acquisition philosophy,” I add.
I try to pay attention to Brian’s answer. Honestly, I do.
But this thing with Ellie has me on edge, which is definitely not my standard operating procedure. Sure, she’s always thrown me off my game—even when Ryan and I were in grad school and she was still an adorably awkward college kid. But back then, I only saw her for occasional Seyfried family parties. And yeah, maybe I had a little crush, and enjoyed making her laugh way too much, but I thought I’d left all that behind.
Until now.
Having her in the office all week has seriously messed with my head.
Both of them.
If Ellie had any idea the kind of thoughts she stirs up—the kind of dreams that send me bolting for a cold shower at three in the morning, desperate for something to alleviate the ache and scrub my thoughts clean—my ass would’ve been hauled down to HR before the opening bell chimed on the stock exchange. And then she’d have her story gift wrapped with a bow, courtesy of my definitely-not-workplace-appropriate hard-on problem.