Vote Then Read: Volume II

by Lauren Blakely

  I bet she’d get a kick out of any of those topics. I bet she’d dive right in, opinion at the ready.

  Amy Summers is just so damn sexy-cute in all the ways that count, and she’s nearly irresistible.

  Except resistance is precisely what I need to practice.

  I should think of her like Peter the Silver Blader and stay far, far away. I don’t have time for a relationship right now, and office romances never work.

  “Hey, Superman,” Baldwin calls out to me, rerouting my thoughts. I turn to see he’s just stepped off another elevator. “Can you do me a solid, bro-bro, and grab me a hot-as-the-surface-of-Mercury tea if you’re going to the break room?”

  “I wasn’t, but—”

  “Then we’ll go together, bro-bro.”

  “‘Bro-bro’?”

  “It’s a step up from just ‘bro.’”

  “Alrighty, then . . . dude-dude.”

  He rolls his eyes. “‘Dude-dude’ doesn’t have the same ring as ‘bro-bro.’”

  I arch a brow. “Are we sure ‘bro-bro’ has a ring to it though?”

  “Don’t make me take the double ‘bro’ back. It was a promotion on the ‘bro’ scale. Take it as such.”

  “I accept the double ‘bro,’ then.”

  “You’re a good man.”

  I join him in heading for the break room and give myself a pat on the back for resisting flirtation so far this morning.

  Even when I bend the slightest bit and send her an email a little later.

  Can’t wait to hear what you think.

  Then there’s a link to download the Casino Royale audiobook. Fine, it’s technically a present, since I’m gifting her the book.

  But I’ll expense it. It’s just a work present. That’s all.

  If it were anything more, I’d respond to her quick reply.

  Wow! You are officially the best non-twin in all of Pine Crest View! Thank you!

  But I don’t.

  Proving to myself that I only sent that book in a professional capacity.

  Later that day, I meet Raphael McNaughton, one of the VPs and my direct boss. I not only go straw-free, but also bring my coffee in my regular well-used to-go mug—and not just to impress him. I’m legit eco-friendly, sustainable, and Earth-loving, and not above showing that off a bit.

  “Brother in arms,” the bearded man says, nodding at the cup appreciatively.

  “Only way to be,” I say.

  I tell him about the agents I’ve talked to already this week and the books they have coming down the pike that we want to pounce on. “And Viviana Grayson over at CMA is getting ready to shop Ice Cold Intent, a new thriller that she says will”—I sketch air quotes—“chill me to the bone.”

  Raphael shudders. “What more can you ask for in a thriller?” He leans forward in his chair, his dark eyes challenging me. “But can you nab it?”

  I don’t lack confidence when it comes to the job. Work has come easily to me, and my judgment has been unerring, my track record impeccable, and my rise to senior editor rocket fast. Had You Go, Girl come to me, no way would I have let that slip through my fingers.

  My personal life though? That’s another story. As my sister would say when she feels like being kind, I don’t “make good choices” when it comes to the ladies.

  “Can I get Ice Cold Intent? There’s no better house for it than Bailey & Brooks, and I’m going to do everything I can to make sure Viviana knows we’re the right publisher.”

  “Damn. I’m sold,” he says with a grin, and I guess he’s not such a hard-ass after all.

  More good news comes when I learn the company has a gym two floors down.

  That makes my workout routine easier, and also gives me the chance to chat with Tiffany Chilton, one of the VPs, as she climbs the StairMaster next to me the following day at lunch, regaling me with how she snagged a hotshot author from another house.

  “And then I was saying to her agent, ‘What’s it going to take for us to acquire the next Laney Turner romantic comedy?’” she asks, breathing hard as she climbs another set of stairs.

  I’m at the hundredth story myself on my machine. “And what did Sandy tell you? Because she’s one of the toughest agents out there. She makes stone look like Silly Putty.”

  “You’re telling me,” she says, and then shares the nitty-gritty on how she wooed the agent of the big-name author. I take mental notes, glad that Tiffany is a shark with agents but as friendly as a puppy with colleagues. Not a bad combination in this business.

  After a quick shower, I return to my office, saying hello to Juanita, the quiet but capable senior editor in the other office next to me, and dive into the manuscripts I’m working on.

  Soon, Baldwin raps on the door. “It’s nugget time.”

  I wave him in. “Lay it on me, bro-bro.”

  He likes to drop off tidbits of office advice around three every day—“afternoon nuggets of wisdom,” as he calls them—and I’m damn grateful he decided to make me his corporate project. I’ve learned the best lunch spots, the worst chairs in the conference room, and which VPs hate exclamation points. Rainey—no surprise—loathes them and wants them obliterated from all correspondence. Tiffany loves them.

  “Did you read the most recent update to the HR policy?” Baldwin asks, flopping into the chair across from my desk.

  I squint, trying to remember the details of the employee handbook. “Which one?”

  “No romances with a direct report, but others are fine. The only rule is thou shalt disclose office romances to the HR manager.” He waves pointedly toward the lobby. “That means if you decide Zoe from the front desk is your type, you need to tell someone.”

  I blink. “Zoe?”

  “Yes. You seemed to be lingering by her the other morning.”

  I stifle a chuckle. He has it so wrong, but I don’t feel the need to point that out. Besides… “Isn’t Zoe an intern?”

  He glares at me. “Yes. Your point?”

  “Doesn’t that mean she’s, I dunno, twenty?”

  Another stern glare. “Twenty is legal in New York.” He furrows his brow. “Wait. It is, right? I better check, because the guy I took home last night said he was twenty. What if he’s not?”

  Baldwin sprints to his office, presumably to check age of consent in various states. (News flash: twenty is well over it.)

  But legality aside, his update on the HR update handcuffs my interest in Amy, even though our conversations at Gin Joint last week and in the elevator yesterday morning were two of a kind—the kind that makes you want to ask a girl out on the spot, and for a second date while you’re at it, because you know you’re going to hit it off with her.

  We have that kind of chemistry.

  But it’s all for the best that nothing transpired at the bar.

  I don’t want to get involved with anyone I meet through work, policy or no policy.

  Been there, done that, wish I hadn’t.

  And I’m all about a fresh start in this new gig.

  No work nookie, no work romance.

  But I’m not going to lie. I do enjoy the hell out of bumping into her.

  Especially when fate presents me as perfect a conversational entrée as it does in the break room on Friday.

  After all, helping a colleague isn’t flirting.

  I point as she opens the door to the fridge. “You have a paper clip stuck in your hair.”

  “I do?” Her hands fly up to her head and she begins patting around furiously. The pose lifts her shirt the slightest bit, revealing a sliver of soft, kissable flesh at her waist.

  That’s definitely not helpful.

  “No. The back of your hair,” I say, and I’m tempted to reach for the paper clip, like in a movie. Theme music would play, and the video would slow, and we’d have a moment when my hand touched her hair. Our eyes would lock, then we’d blink. I’d cough, she’d laugh it off, and I’d say, Paper clips, am I right?

  Or maybe I’ve seen one too many romantic co
medies. Or one too many dirty videos, since I’m alternating between wanting to sling quips at her and wanting to kiss my way down her stomach . . . then up it, past her shirt, higher and higher still.

  I’m so screwed if merely one visible inch of her belly can hypnotize me.

  I have no choice. Must remove the distraction. I step forward and grab the clip from her hair, catching a faint hint of her shampoo. Of course it smells like peaches. What else would her hair smell like but my favorite fruit?

  I swallow roughly, handing her the clip. “Paper clips, am I right?”

  Her shirt sits properly now, exposing nothing. Mission accomplished.

  She waves the office supply in front of her. “I was looking for this very paper clip.”

  “That? Is it your special paper clip?”

  She stuffs the clip into her skirt pocket then pats it. “It’s my good luck charm, and I definitely need it, since I’m meeting with Sam Salamander at Greenstone Agency later today.”

  The name rings many bells and offers another distraction from too much flirting. “He’s a good guy. I bought a thriller from him last year. No Good Deed.”

  Her green eyes sparkle. “That’s coming out next month. It got a huge buy-in from Target.”

  “Yeah, here’s hoping it does well,” I say, holding up crossed fingers.

  “You don’t need luck. Your books do great. I researched your list. Very impressive, Linc Silvers from Pine Crest View, home of a hospital, horse stable, and perfume empire.”

  “As all good soap-opera towns are,” I say, enjoying our banter. “And thank you. I’ve had a good run, and I can’t complain.”

  She spins around, grabs a Diet Coke from the fridge, and taps her nail against the top while shutting the door with her butt. Her cute butt, which I checked out the other morning. But I’m on the wagon now, looking only into her eyes when she asks, “But maybe you can tell me—as an icebreaker, does Sam prefer cat memes, banana jokes, witty banter, or something else entirely?”

  “Cat memes, obviously. I mean, who doesn’t?”

  “Exactly. There’s nothing better than a great cat video.” She strikes a pose, hand on one hip, the other in the air with the soda can. “And speaking of cat videos, did you know I am the world’s greatest purveyor of humorous feline visual content?”

  I laugh because it’s one of the oddest things anyone’s ever said, and her pose seems to come out of nowhere too. “You are?”

  She sweeps her arm out dramatically. “I have a collection. It’s going to blow your mind. They’re marvelous, incredible, death-defying,” she reels off like a circus showman.

  “Sure. Let’s see this collection.”

  She dips her free hand into her skirt pocket, grabbing her phone. “Step right up to my little mobile device. Prepare to be astonished.” She stops, slumps her shoulders, and shakes her head. Her voice returns to normal. “That was terrible, wasn’t it?”

  “I don’t know,” I say, treading carefully. “Were you auditioning for a role as ringmaster of a cat meme circus?”

  “No. I’m trying to improve my salesmanship,” she says, tucking her phone away then popping open the can. “Specifically, my ability to sell myself. An editor position just opened up, and I’m trying to get the job. One of the things I have to do is prepare a sample pitch for a book I’d want to acquire.”

  I push my glasses up the bridge of my nose. “Ah. I see now. Perhaps another tactic is better.”

  “Ya think?”

  “Just an idea,” I say, then latch onto her admission. “What’s wrong with your sales skills?”

  “The truth?”

  “Sure. Give me the truth.”

  “I’m great at selling others, but terrible at selling myself. And I need to sell myself if I want the new job.”

  “But you’re a good editor?”

  She nods. “A wordsmith. I can make sentences sing and bring the core elements of a story forward.” She’s proud, but not boastful. “But I don’t think that’s enough to get to the next level. I need to improve my pitching.”

  “Not that you asked, but you should do more of that.”

  “More of what?” she asks, confused. “More pitching?”

  I shake my head. “No. I mean the way you said you can make a sentence sing. Do that. It was full of confidence. I don’t know your work, but I do know how to sell the hell out of the books I want to acquire, and confidence is key. Think about all the things you do well, and lean on—” I stop, catching myself. “Wait. I hope that wasn’t mansplaining. I’ve made it my mission never to mansplain. Or manspread, for that matter.”

  “You must listen to The Modern Gentleman of New York, then,” she says.

  “I do actually. Love that podcast. You listen as well?”

  “Sometimes. He’s good friends with my brother. And don’t worry. That wasn’t mansplaining. You have the experience to back up your advice. I appreciate the confidence tip and the cat meme tip. Too bad I’m not in the business of selling cat memes or skirts with pockets,” she says, patting the spot where she stored the paper clip.

  “Are they easy to sell?”

  “Obviously. Pockets on dresses are proof that God is a goddess and always thinks of women first.”

  A laugh bursts from my chest. “And why is that?”

  She stuffs both hands in said pockets and juts out her hip, a coquettish little pose. “They are one of the best inventions ever, right up there with vanilla lattes and cake.”

  “And now I’ve learned something new.”

  “And something vital.” She heads for the door then stops, hand on the doorjamb, and turns around. “Linc?”

  My name sounds far too good on her lips.

  “Yes?” My voice sounds far smokier than it should.

  “Thanks again for the tip. It helps a lot, and I appreciate it.”

  “Anytime.” I should let her go, stop chatting with her. But I don’t want to, so before she can leave, I say, “Is that really a good luck paper clip?”

  “Nah. When I need luck, I just don’t change my socks for a few days.”

  My eyes stray down, and I breathe a sigh of relief when I see she’s not wearing socks.

  She flashes me a wink, then says, “And thanks for saving me from the embarrassment of a paper clip in my hair.”

  “If it’s any consolation, you wore it well.”

  “Better than anyone else in Pine Crest View?”

  “You’re the best paper-clip wearer in the whole damn town.”

  “As long as you don’t say that to all your non-twins,” she says, her tone a little inviting, a lot enticing.

  “I don’t say it to anyone else. Soap-opera honor code.”

  She rewards me with another pretty smile, then leaves, while I contemplate banging my head against the wall.

  I wish she wasn’t totally endearing.

  Completely entertaining.

  And incredibly kissable.

  I return to my office, telling myself I’m not crossing lines by chatting with her. A simple flirtation is fine. As long as I make sure it doesn’t go any further.

  When Baldwin raps on my door at the end of the day, he tells me there’s a going-away party that weekend for Mike Beanman before the editor leaves for London.

  “Want to go?”

  I say yes faster than a cheetah.

  Networking—that’s the name of the game. I can chat up colleagues at the party and make sure I’m 100 percent oriented to the lay of the land here in New York.

  The business terrain, not the landscape of eligible women.

  Even though I admit that there’s the start of a story in my office banter with Amy.

  That’s the trouble.

  Talking to Amy has that easy feel of the last romantic comedy I acquired, and That’s What She Said was a huge hit.

  But it also brought a ton of trouble to my life.

  Trouble that’s behind me now, and needs to stay in the rearview mirror.

  The next night
, I drop by Tristan’s, a wine and tapas bar near my pad, and order a pre-party bite to eat. Going to a work party on an empty stomach only leads to embarrassment from a growling belly or accidental intoxication. Plus, stuffing your face is never a good look when you’re trying to impress your new colleagues.

  Tonight I place an order of chicken kebabs and an iced tea with the owner.

  “One order of kebabs coming right up. And how’s your first week in New York treating you?” Tristan asks. He’s a cool dude. We chatted when I was here the other night, clicking instantly.

  “Let’s see. I was nearly hit by a cab, a rollerblader, and a cyclist. Also, I didn’t know anyone still rollerbladed.”

  He pours some iced tea, nodding sagely. “Only people who are trying to murder newcomers to New York. Like Peter the Silver Blader.”

  I crack up. “He must be notorious in these parts. A woman at the office mentioned his villainous intent.”

  “We don’t always tell the new guys about him. It’s a good sign that your coworkers like you enough to give you the heads-up.”

  “Thanks. Glad I passed the beware of murderers test.”

  He slides me the beverage, then scrubs a hand across his beard. “If you’re going to pass a test, is there any better one?”

  I gaze at the ceiling. “Nope.” I take a drink. “Any other words of wisdom?”

  “Never get involved with a chick at the office. Words to live by. But you know that already,” he says, then heads down to wait on a new customer.

  I do know that. So does Tristan, since I shared the SparkNotes version of my number one romantic rule when I was here the other night.

  The longer version?

  1. Avoid women in the same business. You’d have to be more daring than a stunt double to dally with anyone—from a boss to a coworker to someone in another department—who could affect a paycheck, even indirectly.

  1a. That includes women who aren’t in the business but say they are. Because lies can bite you in the ass.