She reaches for a pair of purple reading glasses, slaps them on, then powers through my letter, asking questions about my proposed edits.
With my shoulders tall and my head held high, I explain why I made each suggestion.
I don’t say a word about hockey.
I don’t suck up like Antonia.
And I don’t pretend to be someone I’m not.
I’m me, and I’m good at what I do.
When we’re through, her lips curve into the slightest of smiles. “Very well.” She takes a deep breath, and I tense. This must be where the inquisition starts.
“Just one more question,” she says.
I’m braced for it—the moment of truth. “Sure. What is it?”
She shifts some papers around on her desk, scanning a schedule, it seems. “Would you be able to do the pitch this morning instead of this afternoon? We’re moving things along faster than planned.”
I blink, surprised. But I give her the only possible answer. “Yes.”
“Thank you. We’ll see you in the conference room in twenty minutes.”
She returns to her screen, and I’m dismissed.
She didn’t say a word about Linc or Antonia or my personal life.
I’m delighted and also incredibly confused.
I have no clue what happens next.
Linc
As I pass the men’s room on my death march to Raphael’s office, the door opens and a hand darts out to grab my collar and yank me into the washroom.
I flinch, but then stifle a laugh when Baldwin sets his finger to his lips, shushing me as the door swings closed.
“Why did you grab me?” I whisper. “Why not just lay a trap in my office?”
“Because I only now broke free,” he whispers harshly. “Tiffany cornered me to tell me I ought to become ruler of the universe, and of course I agreed. But I just escaped her shower of praise, which I absolutely earned, and I knew you’d walk past the men’s room on the way to Raphael’s office, so I’m here to give you a talking to, which you richly deserve.”
“Is that so?” I can’t believe that, even at a shitty moment, this man still makes me laugh.
“Yes!” he says, exchanging his whisper for a shout.
“Then, by all means, give me what I deserve.”
He heaves an exhausted sigh. “Listen. Considering I don’t know you all that well, I feel like I know you pretty well. Wouldn’t you say?”
“Sure.” He’s spot-on there. We got along well from the start, only a few weeks ago.
“And I know you don’t want work trouble again. I get it. I understand you have battle scars. And that’s why I’m betting there’s a part of you that’s resigned to ending things with Amy. Or you’ve already decided to call it quits. Am I right?”
Busted.
I look away, wishing he hadn’t nailed it.
“So, I’m correct?”
“Maybe,” I admit, a little embarrassed at my own answer.
He groans and rubs a hand across the back of his neck. “I’d hoped you weren’t going to say that.”
“Why?”
He scoffs, jerking his chin toward the stalls. “Because I really didn’t want to flush your head in the toilet. It’s too late in the game for me to become a bully. But I swear I’ll flush your ridiculous male pride and send it swirling all the way to Queens if I have to.”
I laugh at the absurdity of his comments. “Is that what you were going to do? Locate my pride and dispose of it in another borough?”
“Yes,” he says. “That’s my job as your friend—to save you from the dumbest impulses of our species. And it would be dumb to end things with a fabulous lady over some stupid HR rule.”
I let out a long, frustrated breath, and I can’t seem to unclench my fists. I’m not pissed at Baldwin. I’m annoyed with myself. “I know, but I’m the new guy here. I moved across the country for this job. This is my fresh start. A chance to leave behind one massively bad decision. Don’t you see?” I tap my chest. “This is my Achilles’ heel, this stupid organ, and it’s tripping me up again. I met a fantastic woman, and it’s threatening to ruin everything I’ve worked hard for. I’m trying to make a name for myself professionally, and it’s working. I have a great list and great books. I’m simply trying to do things the right way, but it turns out I’m doing it wrong again.”
He claps a hand to my shoulder, shaking his head once more, his jaw tight. “Linc, do you know how lucky you are?”
I furrow my brow. “What do you mean?”
“You moved to a new city, you have a plum job, you’ve made fantastic friends literally within the first hour on the job, and trust me, I’m not one of those people are awesome people. I’m more like one of those I hate people people. But I like you. That’s saying something.”
“Thank you. I’m honored you don’t hate me like you hate everyone else.”
“And then on top of all that, you met a person you clicked with right away. Do you have any idea what I’d give to be you? Well, not with a woman.”
I laugh. “I didn’t think you were going to tell me you suddenly liked the ladies,” I say, letting the lighter mood wash over me. “But I thought you liked being a player?”
“Oh, please. I like being a player as much as I like My Little Pony. And I do not like Sparkle Dash or any of her crew. No one actually likes being a player. It’s a revolving door of misery.”
“I thought you liked man candy?” I say, sketching air quotes.
“Fine. I do have a sweet tooth, and that’s fun for a few nights, maybe a month. Okay, possibly a few years, but not forever. I’d like to meet someone I can love. Someone I want to be with, who feels like my forever, the way you feel for Amy.” There is no more chastisement in his voice, only support, only friendship.
“You would?”
He nods, big and long. “Absolutely. I want my own SweeTart, my Junior Mint, my peanut butter cup. And you”—he punches my arm—“you found one.”
He’s right.
My God, he’s as right as candy corn is wrong.
I found someone when I wasn’t looking.
When I met Amy, I tried to do anything but fall in love.
But fall I did, hard, fast, and fantastically.
And I can’t believe I was going to let her slip through my fingers. Life isn’t a soap opera. This isn’t Pine Crest View with complications we can’t navigate. This is the real world, and real people can choose to work things out, even if it’s hard, even if you work together.
She’s worth it.
I panicked after the meeting and let shock rule my tongue. I need to rewind and rewrite.
“What do I do now?” I ask.
As soon as the words come out, the road clears and I see the way forward. It’s not what Jason Bourne would do, or Ferris Bueller, or Mr. Darcy.
It’s what I’d do.
I’m not a guy who plays the “deny it” game like I suggested to Amy. I’m not interested in elaborate cover-ups.
I am, however, excited by honesty.
I dig it. I dig it a lot.
But I’m also a smart guy, and I can be forthright while still respecting Amy’s wishes.
I’ve got this.
“I’m good. I know what to do.” I clap him on the back. “And you are the real superhero, Baldwin.”
“Aww, you flatter me.”
“It’s all true. But we can do the compliments later. I need to go.”
He shoos me away.
I walk into Raphael’s office, and before my boss speaks, I raise a hand. “Hypothetically, if a senior manager were involved with someone before that person became his direct report, would the rule forbidding a relationship between them still apply, or would there, say, be a grandfather clause for preexisting relationships?”
Raphael tilts his head back and frowns at the ceiling like it has the answer. “That’s a question for HR. But I believe the scenario you outlined would be fine.” Reaching for his strawless cup, he conte
mplates the wall next, then finally turns to me. “Or another solution—theoretically—might be to switch direct reports.”
I smile inside, wishing I’d thought of that. But I’d been blindsided, which isn’t conducive to long-term planning. “That’s a great option too. Hypothetically.”
“Yes, I can think of several ways to resolve things to the senior manager’s satisfaction, especially if handled properly.”
“That makes perfect sense,” I say. “Good to know.”
He smiles, chuckling to himself, muttering “Young love . . .” before he clicks on his computer and shifts to business. “Now, about this thriller you want to acquire. That’s why I called you here. I ran the profit and loss statement, and it’s looking good . . .”
And that’s all he says on the romance front.
But I have more to say, plenty that I need to express—but not to him. They’re all things I need to say to Amy.
When I leave his office, I text her.
Linc: That guy who thought we should maybe put this on ice? The one who said “cool it”? I kicked him off my phone. He’s an idiot, and he was dead wrong. This thing between you and me should be on the front burner, hot and bright and turned all the way up. Meet me outside during your lunch break? I’ll be the guy wearing the Clark Kent glasses.
I send the text.
My greatest liability is also my greatest asset, and I know how to play to my strengths.
Amy
This isn’t quite like selling my brother on a slice of coconut cake. Nor is it the same as convincing my friends to take pole-dancing class, or like chatting up Dax Powers online.
But all those moments have funneled into this one.
In the conference room, I open the first slide in my presentation and begin outlining why I want Bailey & Brooks to publish a book I’ve made up, and I’m thoroughly in my element.
“Sex and Other Shiny Objects will be the ultimate romantic comedy—a wink and a nod to the entire romance genre. I can see it on shelves with that sassy title and a fantastic illustrated cover. It’ll be the rom-com to top all rom-coms, the one bookstores go nuts for and can’t wait to put into readers’ hands. After all, who wouldn’t want to read a romantic romp where the heroine enlists her best guy friend to test-drive common sexual tropes from romance novels?”
Tiffany chuckles.
Raphael beams.
And Rainey, the ice queen, cracks a grin.
“Just think about it. Buttons. Do they really go flying across a room—ping, ping, ping—when the heroine rips off the hero’s white dress shirt? Or what about bathtub sex? How easy is it to get it on in the tub without, say, hurting your knees? Throwing out your back? Or getting soap in places you don’t want soap to go?” I say, lowering my voice and adding in a gasp.
The VPs give a chorus of laughs.
This sample pitch is on fire, I can feel it.
I channel all the best parts of me as I walk them through what makes me this project’s ideal editor—my sense of humor, my penchant for wordplay—and how I can guide it onto shelves and into the proverbial front rows of online stores.
At last I wrap up with “Sex and Other Shiny Objects will be the must-read rom-com of next year. After all, who doesn’t like sex and shiny objects?”
Tiffany is the first to clap.
She actually freaking claps.
Rainey follows suit, and Raphael plays the caboose.
“Well done. We’ll let you know shortly,” Rainey says.
I leave, and I want to twirl down the hall at the head of a parade.
But there’s another deal I need to close. I need to make it crystal clear to Linc that he’s not getting rid of me so easily.
As I make my way to my office, I stop in at Lola’s and declare, “Nailed it.”
“Of course you did, you badass woman.”
“Cape power,” I say, still riding high from the meeting.
“What’s cape power?”
I’m about to explain when my phone pings with a text from Linc.
My stomach cartwheels with worry. Is this when he tells me we’re on ice? With a trembling finger, I open it.
And then my chest cartwheels with happiness. I bite my lip so my face doesn’t break from smiling.
“I have to go,” I say, since it’s lunchtime and that’s the appointed hour for seeing my Clark Kent.
I thrust my computer at Lola for safekeeping and hightail it out the door.
I rush through reception, stab the elevator button, and shoot downstairs.
The elevators are sluggish, so I have time to reply.
Amy: Good. Because you’re not getting rid of me that easily.
When I reach the ground floor, I’m dancing inside. I race across the lobby, push through the revolving door, and step into the sunshine of a New York day.
I don’t have on shades, so I shield my eyes, quickly finding Linc where he leans ever so casually against the cool black marble of the building.
He doesn’t notice me at first, and I steal a moment to revel in the view. I’ve admired the sight of him from the day I saw him in the hall.
The afternoon I first set eyes on the man, my lust glands went into overdrive. But now? Lust and passion and respect and joy have hopped into the feelings blender and mixed themselves into a new and effervescent concoction.
What I feel now when I gaze at that tall drink of a man is worlds better. It’s deeper, more potent, and so much more satisfying.
I love that guy.
So much that I wish there were a new word for it in the thesaurus.
But as I look at him and smile happily, I realize I don’t need a new word.
This feeling is worth a thousand of them.
I walk to him.
He smiles, those dimples and that sexy grin melting me.
Closing the distance, he cups my cheek and says, “I have two words for you.”
“I bet neither is sugar or butter.”
“Nope.”
I wiggle my brows. “I have more than two words, so you go first.”
His thumb strokes my jawline, and right now I don’t care about the promotion. All I care about is this man. He’s the chance I don’t want to lose. There will be other jobs and other promotions.
There won’t be another Linc Silvers from Pine Crest View. This guy is the real deal, and I want to keep him.
He whispers the two sexiest words ever: “Grandfather clause.”
And I squeal my solution. “Let’s switch direct reports!”
We both laugh, and then he runs his thumb over my top lip. “Of course you were thinking along the same lines. Because you’re brilliant.”
“We’re brilliant.”
He brushes his lips against mine, and it’s a sugar-sweet kiss with a cherry on top. It’s soft and gentle, and it makes me feel like I belong to him.
He breaks the kiss. “Raphael mentioned switching direct reports too. I just talked to him a little while ago. Don’t worry—I didn’t tell him we are involved. Not without talking to you first. But I did ask hypothetically. Because I wanted to find a way for us.”
And I fall a little further, a lot harder. “That’s actually crazy sexy hot.”
“Why, thank you. And it turns out there are lots of options. Options I didn’t realize at first because I was shocked and I panicked. Because I felt tricked by Antonia and by my own ridiculous feelings for you.”
“I don’t think they’re so ridiculous,” I say playfully, tap-dancing my fingers down his shirt.
“They’re not ridiculous, and that’s why I’m glad we have alternatives like switching or disclosing or grandfather clause–invoking or whatever we need to do.” He slides his fingers down my arm, his deep blue eyes full of intent. “But even if those options didn’t exist, I’d still find a way to be with you, Amy Summers. Do you know why?”
“Why?” I ask, sparklers lit brightly inside me.
His lips curve into a grin. “Because I have five little words for yo
u.”
I float higher. “Do tell.”
“I’m in love with you,” he says, eclipsing my five previous favorite words.
I stand on tiptoes and hold his face. “Six words. I’m in love with you too.”
We kiss on the Manhattan street, lunchtime crowds streaming by. Somewhere I make a mental note that the heroine in Sex and Other Shiny Objects doesn’t need to test this trope.
Because I know it’s true. I know it works. I feel it in my heart and in the marrow of my bones.
I feel it everywhere.
When we separate, I nod to the building. “But we should probably go grandfather ourselves into that clause.”
He takes my hand. “Do you know that is the sexiest use of ‘grandfather’ as a verb ever?”
“I do know that. It absolutely is.”
A few minutes later, we head into the HR director’s office and tell her we’ve been together for the last week and ask if she’d be willing to switch our direct reports.
She makes a note in a file, thanks us for our frankness, and then calls in Raphael and Rainey, since they oversee the two of us.
“I’m good with this, and we’ll work out an appropriate solution,” Raphael says. “And I appreciate you disclosing it properly.”
Rainey doesn’t crack a grin. Instead, she says, “I’m glad to learn in this forum, rather than in front of others.” She looks at both of us. “This was handled well, and we’ll finalize a new direct report structure.”
The only thing that could make my day better is getting the promotion.
But when I return to my office, Lola is waiting for me with a vanilla latte and a frown.
“The editor job went to Madison.”
Amy
This might be a good time to adopt some new mantras.
Like I’m not upset.
Or I’m good with this.
Possibly everything is fine.
Except I’m immensely sad.
That’s the truth. No mantras can mitigate it.
I sink into my chair.
Correction: I slump.
Vote Then Read: Volume II Page 155