Take on Me

by Sarah Mayberry

  “We can discuss it in the pitch meeting at ten,” he said.

  She obviously didn’t like the fact that he hadn’t answered her directly. He saw anger flash behind her velvet eyes, but she quickly put her mask back in place.

  “It will certainly be interesting to see what you’ve come up with,” she said.

  He didn’t miss the challenge in her words. Interesting, his ass. She planned to make this as hard for him as possible. Last week’s pitch meeting had been a polite standoff, but they’d only been warming up. Now, with a full week of push-and-shove behind them, he knew the gloves would be off. He found himself grinning. There was nothing he liked more than rising to a challenge.

  “I’m all for interesting,” he said.

  She narrowed her eyes at him again, then picked her coffee up decisively.

  “I don’t want to keep you from your work,” she said, moving off.

  His eyes instinctively dropped to her butt as she walked away, mapping her sweet curves and the lean muscles of her thighs. The surge of renewed desire in his groin annoyed him so much that he called out after her. She was not going to get the better of him, even if her miniskirt was doing most of her dirty work at present.

  “Actually, I wanted to have a word,” he said.

  She hesitated for a second, then turned back to him.

  “Sure. In my office,” she said smoothly.

  He followed her with his eyes for a moment more before starting after her. Grudgingly he admitted to himself that she had one of the sexiest damn walks he’d ever seen.

  She was sliding into her seat behind her desk when he entered. It was obvious she expected him to take the subordinate’s chair opposite. Instead, he tossed his satchel onto it and took up a position leaning on her filing cabinet, more than aware that she was at a disadvantage with him looming over her.

  He could see the exact moment she understood her little ploy to undermine him with office geography had failed. He didn’t even try to repress the cocky grin that curved his lips. As long as he could keep his unruly gonads under control, he was going to enjoy poking a stick at Sadie as often as possible over the next six months.

  “How can I help you?” she asked, tilting her head back to look up at him.

  His grin widened at her phrasing. As if he was going to let her help him.

  “I wanted to discuss the idea of doing a feature-length episode during our peak viewing time over winter to capitalize on the audience. It’s a concept a few of the European and Australian soaps have had a lot of success with,” he said.

  She frowned. “You’ve been doing your homework.”

  He shrugged. “Ocean Boulevard has a reputation for taking risks. I’m surprised you haven’t gone down this route already.”

  She opened her mouth to say something, then shut it with a click. Clearly frustrated, she swiveled her chair to face him more squarely and crossed her legs.

  “The idea has been floated a number of times, but the previous producer wasn’t keen. Claudia is more openminded, however.”

  He could see it was killing her to give him even that much information. If he wasn’t mistaken, the only thing she wanted to tell him was how far to shove his head up his own butt.

  “Great. Let’s pitch the idea to her,” he said.

  “Not yet. This is only your third week, Dylan.”

  “So?”

  “You’ll have enough on your plate just getting up to speed. Taking on a feature-length episode on top of that would be foolhardy.”

  He straightened with annoyance.

  “I’ll cope. I think we should do this. Or don’t you want the ratings?” he challenged.

  She uncrossed her legs and his eyes fell to skim their tanned length.

  “Our ratings are the best they’ve been in ten years,” she said coolly.

  “So you’re happy to rest on your laurels, is that it? Don’t want to push to the next level?” He made it sound like an idle question, but they both knew he was goading her.

  “We start plotting the winter blocks in five weeks’ time. That’s not long enough for you to get a grip on the show, the characters and the team, let alone be ready to tackle a feature-length episode on top of the normal workload. You’ve never had to produce this volume of story week-in, week-out in your career before. I think you should be careful not to bite off more than you can chew.”

  Dylan swallowed a four-letter word. She looked so prissy, sitting there with her back straight and her knees pressed together. Even the plumpness of her full bottom lip had disappeared as she fed him her uptight little diatribe. This was the girl he remembered from American Lit—the girl who always had to be right and always had to have the teacher’s attention.

  “You sure your problem with this isn’t that it’s not your idea?” he asked.

  “Very,” she said succinctly. “I’m also sure that I don’t need to justify my decisions to you, hard as that may be for your ego to comprehend.”

  Dylan smirked. “I don’t have ego problems, sweetheart. I know exactly what I’m worth.”

  “Do you? I didn’t know you were such a pragmatist.”

  His smirk turned into a grin. He was enjoying himself.

  “I’m going to pitch my idea to Claudia, see what she thinks,” he said.

  That got her goat. She surged to her feet in one lithe move, body tense as she leaned toward him for emphasis.

  “Don’t even think about it. You’ve had my answer. Learn to live with it. Once you’ve found your feet, we can talk again.”

  “I don’t need to find my feet,” he said through clenched teeth.

  She snatched a copy of last week’s block from her desk. Dozens of Post-it flags bristled from the side of the document, a testament to how many changes she wanted made.

  “Are you really so arrogant that you think you can walk onto a show that’s been running for over fifteen years with multiple, complex story lines and back-stories and think you’ve got it whipped in a couple of weeks?”

  She slapped the document down onto the desk to punctuate her challenge. He eyed the many flags assessingly.

  “There were bound to be continuity issues. They’ll shake out in a couple more weeks.” He shrugged confidently.

  “You really do have a colossal ego, don’t you?” she said, one hip jutting out as she gave him a dismissive head-to-toe.

  “Takes one to know one, baby,” he said.

  She jabbed a finger at him and her breasts jiggled in reaction. “First, don’t ever call me baby again. I am your script producer, and you’d better not forget it. Second, I worked twenty-four hours a day, seven days a week when I did your job three years ago. I’m not ashamed to say it took a good six months before I knew what I was doing. I’m not afraid of admitting I have things to learn. How about you?”

  He stared at her. Her moment of surprising humility and candor took the wind out of his sails.

  “I think you’re making a mistake,” he said, some of the heat gone from him now.

  “I can live with that,” she said, her gaze steely.

  She’d left him nowhere to go—bar throwing a complete hissy fit. Without a word, he swiveled on his heel.

  “Thanks for the chat,” he said over his shoulder as he stalked from the room.

  “Any time, Dylan. My door is always open,” she called after him sweetly.

  He screwed up his face as he did a silent, mocking imitation of her as he crossed to his office. My door is always open. What a load of horse shit. She wasn’t fooling anyone—she wanted to stomp on him until he was confetti.

  Snapping his notebook computer open, he hit the power button. She might have won the battle, but she was going to lose the war. He wouldn’t have it any other way.

  SADIE SANK INTO HER CHAIR as Dylan walked out of her office. Her heart was racing so fast she was sure her chest must be visibly vibrating, and she thanked God that Dylan’s office was out of her direct line of sight.

  Damn him, she thought as she pr
essed a hand to her breast. Damn his insolent gray eyes and his too-tall body and his too-wide shoulders. Who the hell does he think he is, crowding my office and standing over me like he’s emperor of all he surveys?

  She felt a surge of satisfaction as she reminded herself that she had won their little skirmish—decisively. It was the first time she’d triumphed over him so unequivocally, too. Last week, they’d had confrontation after confrontation, but she’d always been left with the distinct feeling that they’d ended each battle in a draw. He was such a smart mouth; he always seemed to have an answer for everything.

  She felt a smile tugging at the corners of her mouth as she relived the confounded look on his face. She’d whipped his ass good and proper—and it felt good.

  An insidious thought slid into her mind as she pulled her notepad toward her, ready to start work. If she wanted to take advantage of it, she had an amazing opportunity in her hands. If she wanted to, she could wipe out the ignominy and humiliation of the past in one fell swoop. She could beat him, humiliate him, emasculate him. Pound him down until the memory of what he’d done to her was nothing but a faded, sepia moment that had no power over her anymore.

  She was his boss. She could hurt his career, get him sacked. Destroy him.

  Maybe it was the residual adrenaline from their fight, but the idea was suddenly incredibly appealing. For the next two hours before the rest of the office came to life, she even allowed herself to believe she was capable of it, too. She could lure him into some kind of disagreement, then use it as a pretext to sack him. If he kicked up a stink, she could make sure enough rumors got around to make him appear difficult, moody and intractable. The kiss of death for a TV writer. Still enamored with the notion, she dug out her address book and jotted down a few names for potential replacements for Dylan. She’d told Grace last week that she couldn’t get rid of Dylan without having a suitable candidate in mind. But if she had that person waiting in the wings…There’d be no stopping her from kicking Dylan’s arrogant ass out of the building the next time he tried to bully her.

  Feeling as all-powerful and godlike as Donald Trump in The Apprentice, she put a call through to her first prospect. As she waited for the line to connect, Claudia walked past her doorway and flashed a smile her way. Sadie felt a surge of guilt as she considered what she was doing—sneaking around behind her friend’s back to make her own life more comfortable. That quickly, reality rushed in and all the reasons why she could never be hard-ass enough to go through with such a cutthroat scheme tumbled into her mind. She couldn’t even say no to door-to-door charity collectors, for Pete’s sake, let alone be cold and calculating enough to squeeze Dylan from the building without just cause. Hell, she still had a cupboard full of peanut-butter Girl Scout cookies from last summer—and she was allergic to peanuts.

  Relieved that sanity had come calling before she’d done anything stupid, she was about to put the phone down when a voice sounded in her ear.

  “Olly Jones speaking.”

  She should have ended the call, but she was so surprised she spoke up.

  “Um, Olly, it’s—it’s Sadie Post calling from Ocean Boulevard. We spoke last year at the Writer’s Guild seminar,” she said. Shit. What was she going to say to him now that she’d decided she wasn’t up to being Machiavellian?

  “Sure, Sadie. How’re you doing?” Olly said, his Southern accent pouring as smooth as syrup down the line. “How’s the show going?”

  “Show’s going great. Really great. Everything’s good.”

  “Good to hear,” Olly said.

  She could hear the curiosity in his voice. He was wondering why she was calling. With good reason. She tried to think of a viable excuse, but her mind was a complete blank. The silence stretched awkwardly, and in desperation she fell back on her original reason for calling. It wouldn’t hurt to sound the guy out, would it? Even if she never did anything with the information, it was a legitimate reason for calling out of the blue like this.

  “Listen, I was wondering if you were still looking for in-house work?”

  “I was, but I’ve just signed with Crime Scene,” Olly said apologetically. “It never rains but it pours, I guess. Been sitting at home waiting for the phone to ring for months.”

  “Well, you know the industry,” Sadie said, trying not to sound too relieved. Thank God he had work, since she had nothing to offer him.

  They chatted for a few more minutes about mutual friends, and Sadie put the phone down feeling as though she’d had a close call.

  Who was she kidding? She wasn’t the conniving Alexis Carrington type, always with a sharpened knife at the ready to stab someone in the back. If she was going to get rid of Dylan, it would be open and honest—no matter how intimidating that might seem when she remembered the dark resolve in his eyes and his ready, quick tongue.

  She checked her watch. It was 10:00—time for the pitch meeting with Dylan and his team. Gathering her notes, she stood and took a deep breath. She had no illusions. It was going to be a battle of wills from beginning to end, a clash of the Titans. Last week’s meeting had been bad enough, but she knew he’d come out fighting hard today after their disagreement earlier. But she’d already decided that beating him at his own game was the only way she was going to manage him, so there was nothing left for her to do but endure. Teeth gritted, she strode forth.

  The moment she entered the meeting room, her stomach clenched. Because she’d dallied making her stupid call to Olly Jones, the rest of the team had filled up the available seats, and the only spot remaining was to Dylan’s immediate left. She stared at it for a full ten seconds as she hovered in the doorway, hating the idea of sitting so close to him. Why hadn’t she come sooner to grab a spot as far from him as possible? Last week, they’d sat at opposite ends of the table and stared icily at each other all meeting. It was an arrangement that had suited her just fine, but this week she would have to make do.

  Lips thin, she slid into the seat, her body tense and stiff. They were sitting so close, she could smell his aftershave—something mellow and delicious—and out of the corner of her eye she could see the dark hairs on his tanned forearm as he tapped at the keyboard of his notebook computer. She pressed her knees together and kept her arm tightly by her side, determined to avoid even the hint of physical contact with him.

  Around them, the rest of the team and Claudia chatted desultorily, chewing over last night’s TV ratings, discussing the latest movie releases. Only she and Dylan were silent. Feeling ridiculously awkward, Sadie shuffled through her paperwork while Dylan continued to tap away on his keyboard. She didn’t dare look at him. She didn’t want to—she knew what he looked like. His image was etched indelibly on her brain.

  Glancing down, she stiffened with shock as she saw that her nipples were jutting shamelessly out from her chest, fully aroused and keen for the world to know it. The realization forced her to acknowledge the illicit buzz that had stolen through her the moment she sat down—a mixture of awareness and alertness and excitement, every nerve ending on emergency standby, her blood as thick as treacle in her veins.

  Angry with herself, she twitched her arms across her chest to hide her ridiculous nipples. She knew exactly what this was—a tired relic of her teen crush. It was pathetic, and shameful.

  And for the life of her she couldn’t make it go away. Her gaze was practically burning a hole in her notes she was staring at them so hard, but nothing could stop her from being supernaturally aware of the man sitting beside her. She could feel the heat radiating from his body and, even though she hadn’t looked at him since she came in, she was painfully aware of everything about him, from the black T-shirt he wore to the way his hair curled behind his ears, to the strength of his forearms.

  She shifted in her seat. She despised him. She wasn’t attracted to him. He was an egotistical jerk. This physical awareness was simply a ghost from the past.

  Still, her body remained on high alert. She suppressed a sigh of relief when Dylan fina
lly pushed his chair back and moved a few feet away to the whiteboard. Perhaps now she could concentrate on the here-and-now instead of some aberrant teen urge that was about as welcome as a dose of poison ivy.

  “Right. Welcome to block 735,” Dylan said as he called the meeting to order. Conversation died and all eyes turned to him. All eyes except for hers. She knew better than to look at him after the way her body seemed determined to forget the humiliation she’d suffered at his hands.

  “Let’s start with Loni and Kirk. Last week we left Kirk feeling distinctly jealous about the way that Loni and her old flame, J.B., were getting on. He’s held off on sending the divorce papers. It’s time for Loni to find out about this, and for Kirk to accuse her of sleeping with J.B. In the middle of their big row, they’ll get the call from the cops—Kirk’s brother has died in a car accident, leaving behind an orphaned baby girl.”

  Sadie took notes, marking down anything she wanted Dylan and the team to flesh out in more detail for her before she signed off on it. As the minutes passed and he outlined a heartrending, sexy story for the show’s star-crossed lovers of the week, Sadie felt a grudging admiration. She wanted to hate his ideas, to find a million different ways to criticize and put him in his place. But he was good. He was very good.

  By the time he’d moved on to the next major strand for the week, she’d been so lulled by his voice that she forgot to keep her eyes on her notepad. The moment her gaze slid across to his tall body she realized her mistake, but it was too late.

  Standing just a few feet way, he stretched and paced and gesticulated passionately as he outlined his ideas. Strong muscles flexed in his chest, his biceps bulged, the tendons stood out in his neck. At one stage, he even lifted the edge of his T-shirt to scratch himself absently, and she was treated to a flash of firm, muscled lower back. Next her eyes dropped to his thighs, hugged so intimately by worn denim. He was bigger there than she remembered, his quad muscles fuller and firmer.