Man Candy

by Lila Monroe

  I lie back in the cushions and yawn. “What am I going to like?”

  “I got a job there.”

  “Where?”

  She rolls her eyes. “Focus, Nick. At CandyShack.”

  “You. Got a job. At CandyShack?”

  “Yes,” she says, very slowly. “I got a job. At CandyShack.”

  Suddenly, the words knit together. I figure out what she’s just said.

  I sit up.

  “What the fuck, Alice? Have you any idea how stupid that was?”

  As I look at her, it’s clear this is not the reaction she was expecting. But what was she thinking? Her face crumples, and for a second, I’m sure she’s going to cry. Instead, her eyes narrow, her expression turning to steel.

  She crosses her arms. “I thought you’d be happy.”

  “That’s insane!” I yell.

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re insane. Alice . . . You and your bunnies are adorable as hell. But the three of you have no field experience.”

  “Bunnies? What the fuck, Nick. I can do this.” Alice folds her arms, determined.

  “I’m sure you can.”

  “Don’t patronize me.” Okay, she’s really mad now. Then she gets up. “Maybe we should talk about this when you’re sober.”

  Something about this idea makes sense. But her nose is so crinkled and cute I can’t remember what . . .

  “Nick!”

  “What?”

  “Did you seriously just boop my nose?”

  “No.” I grin.

  “Yes, you did!” She’s still mad. But she’s laughing at the same time. How do women do that? It makes her even more adorable.

  “No, I didn’t,” I protest. But maybe I did because I can barely resist doing it again.

  She shakes her head. “We’re going to talk about this tomorrow,” she huffs. “But only as a courtesy. Because I’m taking that job. And when you’ve had time to sober up, and take a shower, you’ll realize: I’m right.”

  Then she strides away.

  It’s still dark when I wake up with a knife in my skull. I squint one eye at the clock on my bedside table. Not even five yet.

  More sleep.

  But I’m dying of thirst.

  Something catches that one eye. I open the other. There’s a glass of water and two tablets beside it. I want to thank my drunk self for being so proactive. But drunk me is not a forward-thinking kind of guy.

  Then the events of last evening come rushing back. It takes only seconds to come to the realization that I now owe Alice a thanks on top of an apology.

  With a sigh, I push myself up and reach for the pills. I’m still fully clothed, so at least I don’t have to wonder if she undressed me. Did she put me to bed, though?

  No idea.

  One thing I do know is that after she left me on the couch, I had a nightcap. Maybe two. It’s all pretty fuzzy, but what else was I going to do, knowing she was just down the hall . . . in bed . . . maybe even sleeping naked . . .

  I swallow the pills and chug the water. It’s not enough. I want to roll back into bed, but know I’ll be sorry tomorrow—today—if I don’t rehydrate. I get out of bed and strip down to boxers. Then I yank on a pair of sweatpants. Just in case.

  As I come out of my room, I see a strip of light under Alice’s door. It’s early for her to be up, but maybe she’s still on New York time. Or she fell asleep with the light on. Or she’s busy sewing herself a Nick Cameron voodoo doll.

  “That’s probably it.”

  “Nick?”

  Shit. Hadn’t meant to say that out loud. Half a second later, her door opens.

  “You okay?” She actually looks concerned. Which makes me feel like an even bigger ass.

  “Yeah,” I say, holding up the glass. “Thanks for this.”

  She screws up her face. “You got out of bed at dark-thirty to thank me for a glass of water?”

  “It was nice.”

  She shrugs. “A good admin anticipates needs. Sometimes before her employer knows what those needs are.”

  I’m not entirely sure what we’re talking about anymore. Too cerebral for me right now, though. “Anyway, I appreciate it.”

  “It’s a glass of water, Nick. I didn’t solve world hunger.”

  I grin at her. “Don’t discount the Tylenol. Thanks for those, too.”

  Her eyebrows go up over her glasses.

  “But yeah, thanks. And I’m sorry for being an ass last night.”

  She crosses her arms and looks at me like, Oh, so we’re doing this now?

  “I . . . I should have been a little . . . less buzzed.”

  “And less insulting. And asshole-y about me getting a job at CandyShack?”

  How helpful of her to itemize my transgressions. “Yes, all that, too.”

  Her eyebrows go up again. “Well?”

  Uh-oh. What am I missing. Think, Nick.

  “I’m sorry?”

  “Aaaand.”

  Think harder, Nick.

  Fuck. I got nothing.

  “Let me help,” she says as though she’s talking to a toddler. “Alice, I’m very sorry that I freaked out when you took the initiative to get inside the company in a way I haven’t yet been able to. I was a dick and you deserved better.”

  “All that, yes.”

  She rolls her hand until I repeat the whole thing. “Even though,” I add at the end, “I don’t love the idea.”

  Her look says—very loud and clear—I don’t give two shits. I almost laugh. It’s probably a good thing I don’t.

  And all this talking is making my mouth a pasty desert. “You up for the day?” I ask.

  She nods.

  “Come.” I nod toward the kitchen.

  “I’m taking this job, Nick,” she says as she follows me.

  I stick my glass under the spigot in the door of the fridge. “I get it, Alice,” I say, resigned. Because there is no way she’s letting me off the hook, even though I’m the one with the experience. I respect her initiative, even if I think it’s a mistake. But I won’t let her go in blind.

  “But let’s be smart about it. We’ll take some time and I can prep you for undercover work. When do you start?”

  I bring the glass to my lips.

  “Today.”

  I nearly choke. “What?”

  She’s standing there with her thumb between her teeth, looking sheepish. Adorable, but sheepish. “Uh, I start today.”

  “You have got to be kidding.”

  Her eyes narrow.

  “Sorry,” I say. “But how? When did this happen? How long have I been passed out?”

  “Shut up,” she says, taking the glass from me and refilling it before she presses it back into my hand. “I ran into Tiffany—Mr. Janssen’s EA—yesterday. She’s desperate for help and hired me on the spot.”

  I glance at the clock. Still early. “Christ. Okay, fine, let me just make you up some fake ID for the paperwork . . .”

  “Uhhhh . . .” There’s that thumb between the teeth again.

  I close my eyes. “Don’t tell me you gave them your real social security number.”

  “How am I supposed to get paid?”

  My eyes open so I can give her an incredulous look. “Seriously, Alice? You need the money?” I know she doesn’t. Between what she’s getting for this job and what I’ve seen in the financial snapshot Jackson put together, Ms. Alice Jones is doing just fine, even with her expensive shoe fetish.

  “No,” she says. “But I need to look legit. I . . . I didn’t think about you doing up fake ID. I’m sorry about that.”

  “We’ll figure it out,” I say as I chug the rest of the water and put the glass in the sink. I turn back toward my room.

  “I thought you’d be pleased,” she says to my back. “I . . . I thought it was a smart idea. When she said there was a job, I . . . thought . . . I can do this.”

  Her hurt tone stops me cold. You really are an asshole, Cameron.

  I turn back t
oward her. She’s not crying. Yet.

  For some reason, I take the two steps toward her and pull her into my arms, tucking her head under my chin. “I’m sorry, Alice. It was a smart idea. I’m just frustrated with this case.”

  “Then let me help,” she says. She pushes back and looks up at me. “I want to help. I don’t want to just be a trophy.”

  She’s right. She’s so fucking right. I’m so used to working alone that I wouldn’t let myself see that she might just be what I need. I mean, what this case needs.

  “All right,” I say, switching gears as I let her go and turn back toward the kitchen. “Let’s get some coffee on because we have a lot to go over before you start your new job.”

  12

  Alice

  I don’t remember being this nervous my first day working for Olivia. But as I walk into the CandyShack building the next morning, I am freaking out.

  There’s so much at stake.

  I need to remember my cover story. I need to look for clues, anomalies, things that don’t seem right. Oh, and be quick about it—Lainey is running out of time before her business will be ruined.

  All this on top of first-day jitters. And feeling like a total fraud. Also, a horrible person for duping Tiffany.

  At least I look good in my stylish silk sweater, no-wrinkle linen skirt, and kitten heels. As I was getting ready to leave the condo, Nick even gave me the thumbs up.

  “Great costume,” he nodded. “You look just like a nice, responsible assistant.”

  Which is funny, because these are my regular work clothes.

  But despite the nerves, I feel good. After we smoothed out the drama, Nick got on board. When he did, he did a complete one-eighty. As the sun began to rise and shine through the huge windows, he opened up the entire CandyShack dossier. Literally. He spread all the files over the kitchen island and caught me up on everything until my head began to swim with all the details.

  What I’d been able to piece together with my own research was nothing compared to the in-depth files he’d put together on CandyShack, its owners, and everyone even loosely connected to the brand. He made my research at The Agency look like child’s play. At first, it made me feel like an amateur. But then, it ignited something in me. I was suddenly hungry to be able to compile this kind of data myself. To act on it. To solve mysteries.

  “Field work” sounds so ordinary. But it’s not; out in the field is where the real excitement is.

  I cross the main lobby and approach the security desk to sign in. The guard hands me an envelope with my security pass and some tax forms, which seems so . . . official.

  I hope not to be here long enough to get a paycheck. I think again about how stupid I’d been to give them my real information. Of course, Nick would have given me a fake SSN. So amateur, Alice. Oh well, too late now.

  As I’m clipping on my security badge, my phone buzzes. I pull it out of my purse to see a text from Nick.

  Good luck today. You got this.

  I smile, tap out a quick: Thanks.

  I wait for the elevator. Now that I’m alone and have two seconds to breathe, I can’t help but think of last night. Try to untangle everything and make sense of what happened.

  Nick had been angry about me getting the job. While I’d been surprised at the time, now that I look at it from his side, it makes sense. He was right: I don’t have the experience and I did it without consulting him. But he’d come around. And I could tell that after the shock wore off, he was impressed with my initiative.

  But that was only half of what had me up most of the night.

  He’d been drunk. And it turns out, Drunk Nick is sweet and funny and so touchy-feely. He seems to have a thing for my bunny slippers, which is weird, but cute at the same time. I’m not normally one to be into buzzed guys, but I could tell it was so out of character for him. Something about seeing him with his guard down like that was hot. I liked him a little sloppy, looser, not so in control all the time.

  Although, don’t get me wrong, I would take in-control Nick in a heartbeat.

  Pretty please, with whipped cream on top.

  I bet he doesn’t even remember how he’d tried to get me to climb into bed with him. I’d only been in his bedroom to put the water and Tylenol tabs on his nightstand when he’d grabbed my hand. I’d been tempted. Very tempted. But I knew it would be a mistake. A big, giant, career-ending mistake. Because as awkward as things had been after that sham makeout in Janssen’s office, waking up with him this morning would have been a zillion times worse.

  I head upstairs to the executive floor, and find Tiffany waiting. “You’re here!” she greets me, beaming. “OMG, this is going to be the best.”

  She leads me to the corner office—or rather, suite of offices, since Tiffany and I have desks out in an ante-room, guarding the entrance to Janssen’s domain. “Home sweet home,” she says, pointing to my new station.

  Then she literally hands me keys to the CandyShack empire.

  “This is the key for the CEO’s office, the executive washroom—we’re technically not supposed to have access to it, so just make sure you only go when no one else is around—the supply room, the break room, the boardroom, the other boardroom, the janitor’s closet.”

  “Wait, am I expected to clean?” I ask, my heart sinking.

  “LOL,” she says, naming the letters out loud. “That’s just in case your hot fiancé decides to visit and the executive washroom is occupied.” Tiffany gives me a wink.

  “Oh. Thanks?”

  “You’re welcome!”

  Once I have the keys tucked safely in my desk, Tiffany starts with all the digital stuff. She gives me codes to the copiers, the network printers, a sign-in for the HR software and then the motherlode: she adds me as an admin to Mr. Janssen’s Outlook profile, granting me access to everything: his calendar, his emails, his digital files. Everything.

  If I have to, I can even send emails as him. This fills me with both dread and glee—it’s a lot of power. But it means I am so in.

  Nick will definitely be pleased. For sure this time.

  Thank God I know what I’m doing, though.

  Alice Jones, Super Secretary to the rescue! Able to mail merge with a single macro! Unjam a copier with a single paperclip!

  But seriously, if I didn’t have my background as office manager, I would never be able to pull this off. People like to look down on secretaries, but the truth is, we run the world. I’m just glad I have all the skills at my fingertips—especially when Tiffany turns from fun, hilarious, queen of orientation to total slacker princess.

  It begins when she drops a pile of filing on my desk as she’s explaining the detailed sales report she needs me to compile.

  Oh, and she needs it by two, because that’s when she’s expecting Mr. Janssen in after his (air quotes) important meeting. No problem, I think. I’ll get started and ask her for some direction.

  By ten a.m., when I’m stuck, she’s nowhere to be found.

  “Time to put your Super Secretary cape on and figure this out,” I tell myself as I roll up my metaphorical sleeves. But by lunch, I’m completely overwhelmed. After last night’s shitty sleep, I’m running on fumes, and my head is seriously aching.

  This place has zero decent computer filing systems.

  “What are you still doing here?” Tiffany materializes. “It’s lunch!”

  “But the files—”

  “Oh, honey, leave them. Come join me and the girls, we’re just downstairs.”

  I exhale with relief. “Great. I can’t wait to meet everyone.”

  It’s the truth. One thing I missed about leaving my job at the accounting firm (not everything about my backstory is a lie!) is the camaraderie that comes with being in a larger office. Don’t get me wrong, I love Olivia, but having a group to go out with (and who you don’t report to) is fun, too.

  Also, it will give me the opportunity to feel everyone out. Assistants know everything.

  Since it’s Californ
ia, I assume we’re going to end up at a raw, vegan Gwyneth Paltrow-approved place. Nope. Tiffany leads me and the four other women to a cool, roadhouse-style place just down the street.

  Everyone orders full-fat, fried, and coated-in-mayo things.

  Glad I waited until last to order, I follow their lead and get a cheeseburger with onion rings. When in Rome! Also—yum.

  “You’re going to fit right in,” Suzie, the girl on my right, says with a smile, nudging me with her shoulder. “This is cheat day, by the way. We don’t normally eat like this.”

  “Ah,” I say, thankful for the explanation. These women are way too thin to eat like that all the time. “Good to know I don’t have to hate you all for being naturally skinny bitches.”

  “I know, right?” She laughs. “It’s bad enough with the candy. We only do this once a month, or on special occasions.” She waves at me, clearly the special occasion.

  “So, how long have you worked for CandyShack?”

  “Four years,” she says. “I started on the packaging line and moved up.”

  “Oh yeah? That’s cool.”

  “They’re big on promoting from within,” she says with pride. “Now I’m assistant to the head of R&D.”

  Bingo! “Oh?” I say, not having to fake my interest. “So you see all the new candy before it hits stores?”

  She gives me a sheepish smile. “Yep. Sometimes I get to participate in the focus groups, too.”

  “How cool! You help develop new products.”

  She smiles and nods excitedly. “Yeah.” Then she leans in close. “We actually have something new coming out soon. I can’t talk about it yet, but I helped with it.”

  Bingo squared!

  I’m about to gently prod her for more details when: “Oh, Aaaaliiiiiice,” Tiffany singsongs.

  I look at her questioningly. I hope it’s important—I was making progress.

  “You’ve got a stalker.”

  “What?” How can I have a stalker? I don’t even live in this town!

  She angles her head to the other side of the noisy, badly lit restaurant. As one, everyone at our table follows her gaze to where a man is sitting at the bar. It’s dark in the restaurant, but he’s wearing sunglasses.