Fuck. This is bad. Real bad.
I should back off, put some distance between us before I do something incredibly stupid, but I can’t seem to stop touching her. Can’t pull my fingers away from the velvet heat of her skin…
Get it together, asshole.
“All set,” I manage, forcing myself to return to my chair and silently count backward from ten.
“Thank you.” She pats a finger across her lip from left to right, pressing the mustache in place. “This was kind of last-minute. More of a prototype disguise, really. I just need clothes that fit, some better glue, and—”
“No. You need a better idea. Ian will never go for it.”
“I can pull this off, Jack. It’s the best way to get what I need. I’ve experienced the culture here as a woman—now I need to do it as a man.”
“But you’re not a man,” I say.
And God, don’t I know it. Crossing paths every day in the office last week was hard enough. Touching her? Staring at her mouth? Wondering what it would be like to taste those soft, lush, entirely female lips?
Yeah, I’m totally fucked.
“Please, Jack.” She settles back into the chair across from me, fingers interlaced in her lap. “It’s not like you’re Mr. Rulebook. Ian doesn’t even have to know.”
Please, Jack? Don’t tell Ian…
The words echo in my memory, and I fake a cough to hide my chuckle.
Had to be, what, eight years ago? Harvard winter break. I tagged along with Ian for the holidays, crashing on the couch in their old man’s basement. Night after Christmas, I’d just lit up a joint I’d been saving when I heard footsteps on the stairs.
I tried to play it cool, but Ellie knew right away what I was up to. She flopped down on the couch next to me and nudged my knee with her snowman slipper. “Can I try?”
“Yeah, I don’t think so,” I said. “You’re not even old enough to drink.”
“If you’re drinking that stuff, you’re doing it wrong.” She held out her hand and wriggled her eyebrows in that goofily cute way she had. “’Tis the season for sharing, Jack Holt.”
Wordlessly, I caved, mesmerized by the curve of her lips as they encircled the joint. She sucked hard, making the end crackle and glow.
Then she turned green.
She coughed up half a lung, and I figured out pretty quick she’d never smoked before. Didn’t deter Ellie, though. We shared the rest of it, watched some old Romero zombie flicks, planned an apocalypse survival strategy with the kind of excruciating detail only the stoned can appreciate.
Then she went all in on a bag of Cheetos, freaked out about her father coming downstairs, and passed out on the couch. I spent the wee hours of the morning on the floor, shivering my ass off in a pair of shorts and a black Henley covered in her bright orange fingerprints.
I never told her this, but that was the best Christmas I’d had since I was a kid.
I wonder if she remembers…
“I’m going through with this,” she says now, the softness vanishing from her eyes. “To borrow a phrase from the esteemed Rictor, I need to ‘grow a pair.’ So, you can help me, or you can stay out of the way while I grow my own, but either way it’s happening.”
Great. This isn’t going away.
A laugh escapes my lips, and we both know she’s got me by the balls.
But hell if I’m giving in without busting hers, first.
“In all your scheming, Eleanor, there’s one problem you haven’t considered.” I pin her with the stone-cold gaze I reserve for special occasions, like getting a tight-ass client to part with his money.
She wavers, the space between her man-brows wrinkling. “What’s that?”
I blow out a breath. “You’re not going to like it.”
“Tell me.”
“It’s bad. Probably a deal-breaker for you.”
“Jack, will you just—”
“Our snack machine…” I deliver my final words in a whisper. “It’s an organic, Cheetos-free zone.”
Her gasp says it all.
Oh yeah. She remembers.
Her cheeks turn pink, and beneath that hideous mustache, her mouth rounds into an “o,” sending a bolt of desire straight below the belt.
Hell. Every time I think I have the upper hand here, she undoes me all over again.
There’s no way this arrangement can end well.
“That’s fine,” she says, regaining her composure. “I can bring my own.” She rises from the chair and collects her case. “Does this mean you’re in?”
I waver.
As much as I want to offer the support her inner fire deserves, I can’t help my best friend’s little sister infiltrate our company as a dude.
Not without putting myself in a precarious position with Ian, a guy who’s been a damn loyal friend and the only real constant in my life. Not without violating some ethical standards and probably breaking a few SEC rules.
And definitely not without rocking a constant, raging, highly unprofessional hard-on. It doesn’t matter what she’s wearing—Ellie is still Ellie, and my cock knows it.
But damn it, I can already feel myself giving in.
“Well?” she demands.
I may not agree with her methods, but if Ellie needs my help, she’s got it.
I meet her gaze across the desk and silence the warning bells clanging in my skull.
“Welcome aboard, Eric Webb. You and your porn ’stache start tomorrow, nine a.m. sharp.”
Chapter 3
From the texts of Jack Holt and Ellie Seyfried
ELLIE: Hey, are there stalls in the men’s bathroom? If not, “Eric” might have to take breaks to run down to the coffee shop on the corner.
* * *
JACK: Probably? I have my own bathroom. Executive privileges, you know. You could always check with your buddy, Rictor.
PS Are you seriously texting me about pee breaks right now?
When this is over, you’re going to OWE me. BIGLY.
* * *
ELLIE: Some of us have small bladders, Holt. And this is a key part of the Preparation for Possible Obstacles Phase of any journalistic mission.
PS Rictor is not my buddy. And you’re going to owe ME bigly after I’ve added valuable perspective to your worldview.
PPS I may or may not be peeing as I text this.
* * *
JACK: Too much information, Seyfried.
* * *
ELLIE: You’re the one who wanted to be kept in the loop on every aspect of my probe. Just holding up my end of the bargain.
* * *
JACK: I appreciate your integrity, and I’m sure we’ll find a way to accommodate your small bladder. You should be more worried about having the man cred to walk into the men’s room in the first place.
It’s not too late to back out.
* * *
ELLIE: I refuse to back out before I’ve even begun. Stop freaking out. I’ve got this, Jack. I promise.
* * *
JACK: Right… If you have any more burning bathroom questions, feel free to text me. I’ll be up wondering what the hell I’ve gotten myself into.
* * *
ELLIE: Will do. Night, night, worrywart.
* * *
JACK: Good night, Eleanor. May you sleep well and have manly dreams.
* * *
ELLIE: You, too, boss man. ;-)
* * *
JACK: Oh, and Ellie? Be careful tomorrow, okay? For both our sakes.
Chapter 4
Ellie
Be careful what you wish for, because you just might get it.
It’s one of my father’s favorite sayings, one I heard over and over again growing up. Like the time I begged for a pixie haircut (disaster). Or when I fought for a place on the track team then decided I hated running, jumping over hurdles, and just about everything track-flavored except hanging out with my friends on the way to the meets.
And then there was the Harvard Business School disaster, l
anding that coveted spot only to realize finance and I went together like peas and caramel corn.
Dad refused to let me quit track, and my regret didn’t magically restore the twenty inches of hair I’d hacked off, but I did transfer from the business school to the journalism program halfway through my first year of grad school. I wasn’t raised to be a quitter, but I can pivot when I need to.
Like when my sanity depends on it.
I could pivot right now, stay hidden at the back of the elevator, and ride it back down to the first floor where my roadkill-scented mustache and I can exit onto Vesey Street and disappear into the suited throng swarming the financial sector in search of coffee, bagels, and a place to smoke a pre-work cigarette.
No one would know I chickened out.
Well, no one except Jack, and he thinks I’m ridiculous anyway, so no journalist street cred lost there.
But I’m not ridiculous—I’m taking risks to get a unique angle on this story—and I’m not going to let fear win.
I’ve got this. I’m wearing a new suit that fits where it should and sits low enough on my hips to hide my curves. My wig is Broadway quality, borrowed from the best costume-designing neighbor in the world, who also agreed to part with his second-best fake mustache—as opposed to the fourth-best ’stache I wore yesterday.
Having a neighbor who has a collection of fake mustaches—and the skill with cosmetics to teach me how to work masculine magic on my face—is a sign that my plan is destined to succeed. Jack only saw through my disguise because he’s known me for years and yesterday’s attempt was admittedly half-assed.
But today, I’m ready.
I’m a testosterone-fueled man-beast ready to take my new office by storm! Grr!
Rolling my shoulders back, I suck in as deep a breath as possible with two elastic bandages squishing my breasts into pancakes, ignore the dead-animal stink of the super-powerful spirit gum holding my smaller, less porn-tastic mustache in place, and step out into the S&H reception area.
But after getting up an hour early to put on my man face, all I can think about now is an extra-large cup of coffee.
The underling break room is a simpler affair than the executive lounge where my brother and the higher ups recharge, but still far swankier than any water-cooler situation I encountered in my years of working in a newsroom. There is a full kitchen, two stainless steel refrigerators, the Cheetos-less organic snack machine, a variety of seating options, and a gourmet coffee station that puts Starbucks to shame, complete with everything I need to make a caramel latte.
Now to find my way through the crowd swarming the machine and figure out how to work the milk frothing thingamajiggy…
“Hey, new guy.” Hannah, Jack’s assistant, a curvy, freckled redhead with kind brown eyes smiles as I sidle up to the coffee queue. “Eric, right?”
I nod, dropping my pitch as low as I can manage. “Yeah. Nice to see you again, Hannah.”
Her brows bob in surprise. “You, too. You’re good with names, I see.”
“I try to be.” I smile my new, careful smile. Men, especially financial sector men, don’t smile as widely as women, and caution is good for keeping the mustache in place.
“That’ll serve you well, but don’t be afraid to ask if you forget someone. It’s a big office, and we’ve all been the newbie.” She laughs before gesturing toward the break room door. “And remember, I’m down the hall if you need anything. Jack asked me to keep an eye on you, make sure you get settled in okay.”
“That was nice of him,” I say, figuring now is as good a time as any to start putting out my undercover feelers. I asked around last week, but people weren’t inclined to dish with the boss’s sister. Now that I’m a peer, I’m hoping they’ll be more loose-lipped. “Jack seems like a fun person to work for. I’m looking forward to being part of his team.”
Hannah’s smile widens. “He is fun. Fair, too, which isn’t always a given.”
Before I can ask what she means, a seal-bark of laughter sounds from the door. “No, you get the hell out,” Rictor shouts, jabbing his thick finger at someone farther down the hall. “Yeah, I do kiss your mother with this mouth. Ask her.” Still guffawing, Rictor swaggers into the room. “Hey there, Hannah Banana. Any almond milk in here? The lounge is out.”
“Why don’t you open the fridge and check, Stephen,” she says, lips tightening at the edges. “And meet Eric while you’re at it. He’s the new broker.”
Rictor thrusts an arm into the air between us as his eyes sweep my frame. But his gaze is calculating, not speculating, giving me my first taste of the difference between being Ellie and being Eric.
Ellie had her boobs checked out and was complimented on her skirt. Eric gets a firm handshake and a, “Great to have you on board, man. What’s your specialty?”
As I roll through my spiel about emerging technologies, Hannah backs toward the door with a wiggle of her fingers.
I stop mid-sentence to wave and say, “Thank you, Hannah. I appreciate the welcome.”
“My pleasure,” she says before stepping out into the hall and the salmon run of people hurrying to get to their desks before the stock exchange opens.
Rictor grunts out a laugh as he crosses to the fridge. “Don’t even think about it, bro. She looks like a firecracker, but under all that ginger, she’s cold as ice.”
“Excuse me?” I turn to him with a frown.
“Getting in her pants,” Rictor clarifies, his voice low. “It’s a no-fly zone down there, I promise. Better men than you have tried.”
My jaw drops. I can’t believe he’s taking the conversation there not thirty seconds after meeting me—and with six other employees, most of them women, standing less than four feet away at the coffee machine.
I’m still trying to figure out how “Eric” responds to stuff like this, when my butt begins to vibrate. “Barbie Girl” by Aqua blasts from the speakers, filling the break room with a sugary-pink pop song so girly I might as well rip off my pants and prove beyond a shadow of a doubt that I’m in possession of a vagina.
I struggle to pull my phone from my tiny back pocket, sweat breaking out beneath my fake ’stache. Finally, I wrestle my cell free and silence the pop-abomination amidst giggles from the women stirring creamer into their coffees a few feet away.
“Got a thing for Barbie, huh?” Rictor casts serious side-eye my direction.
“My neighbor’s daughter must have done that last night,” I say as I decline Spencer’s call. I’m not ready to give him a breakdown on project Trojan Mustache just yet. “She borrows it to play Scrabble and then changes my ringtones to the most embarrassing things possible. It’s part of a prank war she started when she was eight and decided a wo-working, um…” I clear my throat with a nervous laugh. “A working guy living alone needed a kid influence in his life.”
Shoot, I almost said “woman living alone.”
I almost blew it five freaking minutes into my first day!
“Prank war, huh?” Rictor grunts. “I think it’s safe to say the kid won.”
“Well, I think it’s cute,” a rosy-cheeked brunette I don’t remember meeting last week pipes up from near the snack machine. “It’s sweet that you’re good with kids. Shows character.”
“I don’t know that I’m good with kids in general,” I confess. “But Sonia’s a good friend. Her other dad passed away a few years ago, and since then our whole floor has chipped in to help Spencer out. Being a single parent isn’t easy anywhere, I’m sure, but it seems extra hard here in the city.”
More murmurs of appreciation fill the air and one woman presses a hand to her heart as she announces, “That’s it. I’ve got my new favorite broker. Anything you need, Eric, you let me know. I work support for Bruce Maddox and Kyle Hershman, but I can always fit you into my schedule.”
Cheeks flushing with embarrassment, I thank her and excuse myself, fleeing the room without coffee while Rictor glares at me with thinly disguised contempt for my less-than-manly display. B
ack at my desk, I settle in with headphones and the Seyfried & Holt orientation video queued up on my computer, determined to get back on track and stay under the radar.
I’m here to blend in, bear witness, and bring back observations from the front lines of the gender-inequality war, none of which is going to happen if I blow my cover on my first day.
Thankfully, the rest of the morning passes peaceably, and I spend my lunch hour in a booth at the back of a nearby Russian bistro, eating spine-strengthening red cabbage soup and steeling myself for another five hours of manliness.
But I probably should’ve eaten two orders. By the time the two o’clock meeting rolls around, I’m already drained.
I’ve underestimated how exhausting it would be to micromanage every move, every breath, every word and non-verbal response, from the way I laugh to the sound I make when I bang my knee—hard—on the metal leg of the conference table.
My high-pitched yip of agony goes mostly unnoticed in the chaos as people settle in for the meeting, but Jack’s sharp green gaze shifts my way, his lips twisting with disapproval. I smile reflexively—my usual anxious, Jack’s-in-my-vicinity grin—before I remember to be manly and take my grinning down a notch.
But the anxiety triggered by Jack’s glare remains.
It’s the first time I’ve seen him since our one-on-one time in his office yesterday, and for some reason I can’t stop staring at his hands. At his fingers, to be precise, those strong, capable fingers that so gently pressed my mustache into place while Jack’s body heat made my skin flush beneath my ill-fitting suit and Jack’s unique scent bloomed in the air around me, a heady mix of eucalyptus, fennel, and a spicy, clean scent that makes my mouth water.
Like a Boss Page 3