The man smells good enough to eat.
Or at least to lick.
To lick all over, up and down, until I’ve explored every inch of his tanned, toned, utterly delicious—
“I’d also like to welcome Eric Webb to the team,” Jack says, motioning my way.
I flinch in my chair—must pay attention and stop thinking about licking my fake boss, who is every bit as off-limits as if he were my real boss, if not more so—and lift a hand, wiggling my fingers. “Thanks. Excited to be here.”
“Excited to have you.” Jack’s frown belies the words of welcome. He’s clearly not thrilled about his role in my sting operation, but I do my best to ignore his grumpiness and hope my coworkers will do the same.
I cross my legs and snatch a pen from the middle of the table, ready to take notes and contribute to the best of my ability. But focusing isn’t easy when Jack keeps shooting judgmental, disapproving, and even one vaguely nauseated look in my direction, making me wonder if other people can smell my icky glue stink. I thought I was the only one suffering, because it’s literally right under my nose, but maybe I was wrong.
Thankfully, Jack guides the meeting with a steady hand, and by the time three o’clock rolls around, he’s sending everyone back to work with a “good job team, keep it up.”
Snatching my notepad from the table—my loopy, flourish-filled cursive might be a lady-tell, now that I think about it—I leap to my feet and start for the door, only to hear Jack’s deep voice call my fake name.
“Webb, meet me in my office in five.”
I turn to face him, mortified by the pity that flashes across the faces of the two men easing around me to get to the door.
Why is he calling me out on my first day? Drawing attention to me when the best thing for my article is to draw as little focus as possible?
I’m about to ask him these exact questions—under my breath, of course—when he pauses in front of me and says in a husky whisper, “Your mustache is slipping. Again.”
My fingers fly to my lip. I adjust it as best I can and mumble, “I’ll put some more glue on in the bathroom.”
“Do that, and then come to my office. Immediately. Do not pass go, do not flounce to the break room for coffee, do not—”
“Flounce?” I prop my hands on my hips with a huff. “I have never flounced a—”
“And hands off your hips,” he murmurs. “I can see everything you’re trying to hide, Eleanor.”
My lips part and my hands drop to my sides as a wave of completely inappropriate heat washes through me.
Damn it, why does his voice have to be so motorcycle-idling-by-the-ocean sexy? It makes everything he says sound vaguely suggestive, and apparently vaguely is all it takes to make my skin tingle and my body ache.
“Everything’s fine,” I whisper. “No one suspects a thing.”
His gaze drops to my mouth and lingers there long enough to make breathing difficult. “You now have two minutes,” he finally says, breezing past me with a disinterested expression.
I spin, intending to tell him I don’t appreciate the alpha-hole behavior, but several coworkers are still hovering near the door. I swallow the retort and head for the bathroom, getting so close to the ladies’ room that my hand is reaching for the door handle before I remember what kind of parts I’m supposed to have and dart across the hall to the mercifully empty men’s room instead.
After locking myself in the only stall—thank God, sweet stall—I pull my compact and glue from my suit pocket and make the appropriate fixes to my stinktastic ’stache before tugging out my phone and shooting Spencer a text: Even the super stinky super glue is failing me, Spence. Got anything else I can try to keep me from losing my facial hair in my next cup of coffee?
Oh no, he texts back. If it stinks, it’s probably expired. I’ll pick up some fresh on my way out of the shop after the show tonight. How’s your debut going?! I’ve been on pins and needles all day!
Stifling a groan, I reply, Not awful, but not great. I’m about to get a dressing down from the boss man.
Don’t let him grind you down, honey, Spence texts. I respect your commitment to your craft. Stay the course, and the boss man will, too.
I type out a quick thanks, but Spencer’s sweet words aren’t as encouraging as they would usually be.
What if I don’t have what it takes to pull this off? What if my acting skills and my journalistic skills are both subpar and this entire endeavor is destined to fail?
And almost as worrisome—what if this weird awareness of Jack as a delicious creature worthy of hours of devoted licking gets worse?
I’ve always been anxious around Jack and aware of him in a way I’m not with most men, but I’ve never wanted to straddle him in his desk chair and explore his stupidly sexy mouth with my tongue before. I mean, maybe I did…a little, but I could always ignore the forbidden voice of temptation.
“And you’ll keep ignoring it,” I whisper to my reflection in the compact. “Because he is off-limits, a cocky egomaniac, and most definitely not thinking of you as anything but a pain in his ass he would like to have surgically removed ASAP.”
With a nod, I snick my compact closed and head for Jack’s office, mustache and defenses firmly in place and fingers crossed that they’ll stay that way.
Chapter 5
Jack
“Close the door.” I don’t give Ellie a chance to sit before I start in on her. “You’ve got thirty seconds to convince me not to shut this whole thing down.”
“What? Why?” She turns from the door and walks—sashays, rather—toward me, making me more aware of her curves with every swish of her hips, despite her low-riding men’s dress pants. “We had a deal, Jack. You’re supposed to back me up.”
“And you’re supposed to lay low, but clearly there’s been a miscommunication about—”
“Lie.” Ellie sighs as she flops into the chair across from my desk.
“I beg to differ. We agreed—”
“No, I mean the phrase. It’s lie low. Lay is the past tense of lie, as in—I lay low yesterday, but today I’m going to lie low. Present-tense lay refers to something you physically do to an object.”
Fucking hell.
I’d like to present-tense lay her, right here on my desk. And maybe in my fifteen-hundred-dollar ergonomically superior Herman Miller office chair.
I pinch the bridge of my nose and squeeze my eyes shut, forcing the entirely-too-detailed image out of my head before I do something insane, like ask Ellie if she’s interested in a little afternoon delight. I’ve got a meeting in ten minutes, and ten minutes isn’t nearly enough time for a woman like Ellie. I’d want to savor every moment of her, the sweet taste of her kiss, the silky-smooth feel of her skin, the sounds she’d make as—
“Sorry for being the grammar police,” she says, biting her lip. Her voice yanks me out of the fantasy, but the lip-nibbling does nothing to ease the ache below my belt. “That’s what you get for hiring a writer.”
“I’m well aware of what I signed up for with you, Eleanor,” I say, taking pleasure in the way her eyes spark when I say her full name. I use her momentary distraction to adjust myself in my chair, grateful for the giant slab of a desk that’s presently hiding my crotch. “My point remains. People are already asking questions.”
“What people?”
“Rictor was in here twice. Wanted to know how well I vetted the new guy. He’s not sure you fit the mold.”
“The Rictor mold? Please. I can do Stephen ‘Dude-bro’ Rictor all day long.” Ellie clears her throat and reclines in the chair, casually tossing one arm over the back. “Hey, bruh! You catch the game this weekend? Killer, am I right? Dude, you see the new waitress at Blue Bay? She’s tight as hell. I’m totally gonna hit that. And seriously, I got the hookup on these biotech stocks, bruh. You in it to win it? No? Fine, but don’t come crying to me when you’re caught with your dick in the wind.”
I raise an eyebrow, barely holding back a laugh.
She pins me with a narrow look. “You know I’m right.”
“Twice in the span of five minutes,” I tease. “Must be a new record.”
This gets a grin, but it doesn’t last long.
“I’m not walking away from this, Jack.” Ellie’s smile fades. “Not for Rictor or anyone else. It’s a good story. And it’s important.”
“I understand. I wouldn’t have agreed to this if I didn’t believe it was important. But—”
“Seventeen.” She crosses her arms over her chest, refusing to give an inch. “That’s how many instances of overt sexism I’ve already witnessed today.”
I lean forward, all traces of our earlier jokes gone. “I’m listening.”
“Aside from the ‘locker room’ talk?” Ellie pulls a small steno pad from her inside coat pocket, flipping past several pages of notes. “We’ve got men expecting high-level female colleagues to fetch their coffee, taking credit for women’s work and ideas, and allowing clients to treat female brokers as if they’re about as qualified as the potted plants in the break room.”
“Really?” My gut clenches. S&H is supposed to be different. A fair, fun, and challenging place to work. That’s how Ian and I always envisioned it—for every employee, regardless of salary or title.
How did we get so far out of the loop on this?
Looking around my posh office, I’ve got my answer. I may as well be in a damn ivory tower. I’m insulated from the day-to-day here, from all but the senior staff. We don’t even share the same break room.
“As far as I’m concerned—and I know Ian feels the same way—none of that is acceptable,” I say. “But generalizations and observations aren’t enough. Not for your article, and not for HR to start making real changes.” I gesture toward her notebook. “What else have you got?”
“You want hard data? Listen to this: not a single female broker makes an equivalent salary to her male counterparts here, even after adjusting the data to account for different experience levels and client loads.”
I frown. “That…can’t be right. That’s not how our compensation package works. It’s a merit-based system that rewards high performers with commissions and bonuses.”
“What about the workers who are never given the chance to prove their merit? The ones who are passed over for the plum accounts, or given fewer opportunities for continuing education? And look at your hiring practices.” Ellie glances back at her notes, dragging her slim finger down the page. “Four out of five management positions in the last two years have gone to men. A lot of well-qualified female candidates weren’t even granted interviews.”
I consider her words, embarrassed that I can’t explain away any of this. “I had no idea. I mean, I should have. It just never occurred to me to check.”
She shrugs. “Welcome to the seedy underbelly of the patriarchy.”
“I don’t—”
We’re interrupted by a knock on the door, followed by Hannah peeking her head in. “Sorry for the intrusion, but you’ve got a meeting in Conference B in five minutes.”
“Thanks, Hannah. I’ll be right there.”
“Great.” Hannah smiles. “I’ve prepped your notes—they’re out here on my desk. Would you like a coffee or anything?”
I open my mouth to take her up on the offer, but a bolt of guilt lances my gut.
Is Hannah compensated fairly? Am I doing enough to ensure she has access to the same advancement opportunities as her male peers? Have I ever said or done anything to make her feel insignificant or undervalued?
“No thanks,” I tell her. “I’m good. Oh, and Hannah? You’re doing an excellent job. We should set up a time next week to talk about your goals.”
“My…goals?” Hannah scrunches up her nose with a laugh. “As in, life goals? Dinner goals? Squad goals?”
“Just…put something on the calendar.”
She nods, sobering as she realizes I’m serious. “Sure thing.”
After she ducks out, I turn back to Ellie. “How did you find out all of this?”
“S and H keeps records of applications and interviews, as well as salary data.”
My eyes widen. “You hacked into the HR databases?”
“Me? A hacker?” Ellie scoffs. “Now, my friend Gregory in college? That guy could hack his way into the NSA. I’m lucky if I can remember my bank card pin.”
“So how do you know about the hiring data?”
She shrugs. “I made a few friends in a few strategic places.”
I glance at my watch. “In the five hours you’ve been here?”
“This isn’t amateur night, Jack,” she says, sitting up straighter. “It’s my job as a journalist to suss out the facts, and in case you and my brother—and my father, since we’re naming names—haven’t noticed, I’m good at it.”
“I don’t doubt your ability to get the scoop,” I assure her as I rise from my chair to head out for my meeting.
“Then what’s the issue?” She stands, too, folding her arms and cocking out a hip, proving my point.
She’s intelligent, passionate, and completely capable.
But she’s not a dude.
“Your cover is the issue,” I say. “This assignment is going to take more digging than either of us anticipated. You’ll be in this office every day for weeks—maybe longer. And each day is another opportunity for someone to figure out Eric isn’t what he seems to be. If that happens, we’re both screwed. And let’s not even talk about what Ian would do.”
“I don’t like keeping him in the dark any more than you do,” Ellie says softly, placing a hand on my forearm. “But he’s not here. We need to move on this. And I need to stay undercover.”
“That’s why we need to strategize. Maybe over dinner tonight?”
“I have a date tonight. But Saturday and Sunday are open.”
“A date?” Jealousy flares inside my chest. It can’t be a guy from the office—at least not one who knows her as Eric. Did someone on my staff ask her out last week, when she was still wearing skirts and earrings and that sweet, all-too-innocent smile? “Anyone I know?”
Please don’t be Rictor. Please don’t be Rictor…
“I’m not sure this conversation is workplace appropriate.” Ellie smiles, lighting me up from the inside, despite the raging Jealousy Beast clawing through my gut. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got work to do.”
“So, you’re free tomorrow morning, ten o’clock?”
Ellie narrows her eyes. “What are you plotting, Holt?”
“That’s Professor Holt to you. Welcome to Dude 101,” I say with a smile, finally regaining some of the control I’ve lost in the last day. Agreeing to her methods may have been a mistake, but I’m not going back on my word. We’re partners in crime now, and I need to make damned sure she’s got what it takes to pass as a man.
Not just once in a while, but every second she’s posing as a card-carrying, dick-swinging member of S&H Investments.
“Class begins at ten a.m. at your place,” I continue, enjoying having the upper hand. “I expect you to be prepared with your dude talk, your dude walk, and a boundless appetite for knowledge of the Y-chromosomal nature. Intimate knowledge.”
Ellie’s looking at me like I’m nuts, but she hasn’t said no. And while there’s a small voice inside me insisting that this Dude 101 bullshit is just an excuse to spend time with her outside of work, the fact remains that I can’t let her go off half-cocked—rather, no-cocked—while I sit back and watch this blow up in our faces. There’s too much at stake to leave it up to her good intentions and a questionable tube of mustache glue.
So while she’s sifting through my company’s dirty laundry, I’ll be doing everything in my power to keep the swish out of her step, the sparkle out of her eyes, and that highly unmanly, fantasy-inducing pout off her pretty face. With any luck, we’ll fix whatever’s going on at S&H, she’ll get a killer story, and I’ll nip this ridiculous crush in the bud before I do something we’ll both regr
et.
“Oh, and Miss Seyfried?” I open the door, gesturing for her to exit in front of me, flashing her a wolfish grin as she brushes past. “Insubordination will not be tolerated.”
Chapter 6
Ellie
By nine fifty the next morning, I’ve got my Eric duds laid out on the sofa for inspection, tea and coffee on the kitchen table in case Dude 101 requires additional caffeine, and I’m slipping out of my apartment to fetch my new, extra-sticky mustache glue from Spence.
Dude lessons. Seriously.
I do not need dude lessons.
What does Jack think I’ve been doing for the past twenty-eight years? I grew up in a house full of men, I wore my brother’s hand-me-downs until I was fourteen, and until my bad haircut grew out and my boobs grew in (sometime around tenth or eleventh grade), I was mistaken for a boy at least once a week.
I practically am a man. At least on the inside.
I certainly feel more comfortable with men than women.
Then again, karaoke with a few of the ladies from the office last night was a blast. I didn’t score any information for my article—it was too loud in the back of the Korean restaurant—but it was so much fun. No one pressured “Eric” to sing, no one judged the people who did let out their inner diva—even when Barb from accounting massacred My Heart Will Go On. Twice. And I was home by a respectable ten-thirty.
I would be totally rested, in fact, if I hadn’t tossed and turned until one in the morning, stressing about being alone with Jack in my tiny apartment.
Sexy, sanity-testing, lick-able, off-limits Jack.
Why my twisted libido has decided now is a good time to develop an even more serious crush on Jack than the one I had in college, I have no idea. Probably because it’s a traitor, like my upper lip, which seems determined to de-sticky-fy every brand of mustache glue known to man.
Like a Boss Page 4