“Shit,” someone said from behind me.
There was no time to prepare for the body that plowed into the backside of me, shoving me and all the contents in my arms forward like an opened sack of potatoes. I scrambled to pick myself and my dignity up from off the floor. Papers were scattered all around me as if I’d shaken the leaves loose from a tree. A sharp burn tingled around my knee, no doubt carpet burn. The bagels were feet away, spilled from their box.
For the second time today, I found myself closer to the ground than I liked.
Seriously, I couldn’t make this stuff up.
Such was my life.
“Are you okay?” the woman asked as I stood and tried to help her gather her papers. Her hair was a stark teal color, tendrils swimming on either side of her face. Thick lashes shaded a deep hue of sunset-violet eyes. She was a few inches taller than me, dressed in black-and-white-checkered pants and a mustard-yellow top.
She was the color wheel embodied.
“I’m fine,” I managed to squeak in between wincing. “Just trying to find the dignity I dropped.” I squinted toward the floor. “Well, what was left of it anyway.”
A giggle ripped past her cherry-red lips. “That bad, eh?”
“You should see my Kindle … she has it worse.” After I pulled it free from my tote, I waved it in front of her.
Her hand clasped against her chest, lips marred in the shape of a frown. “That’s a literary tragedy.”
“An electronic bloodbath,” I added, smiling.
“The worst calamity to ever happen to a bookworm. Shall we say a little prayer?”
With that, we exchanged unfurling grins.
“Name’s Poppy. Poppy Hayes” She extended her hand. Long, thin fingers with nails painted black. Diamonds tipped the sharp, feline edges.
I took her hand and shook, lips mirroring the rise of hers. “Primrose Amberly.”
“You new here?”
“Yeah. I’m here for the journalist position.”
“You and everyone else in town,” she said with a snort. “Come on. I’ll give you a tour.”
After the papers were neatly stacked and back in her arms, she started forward, and I sort of fell into an awkward pace behind her. She careened around cubicles with ease, tossing names that came at me in a mixture of jumbled syllables that I tried to keep track of. When I spotted a trash can, I tossed the ruined bagels in with a remorseful frown and then hurried back to my place behind her blazing trail.
“You’ll be the tenth interview this morning. Quinn’s been tossing them out left and right.” She paused and spun, eyeing me up and down. A slow-burning smirk tore across her face. “Quinn’s going to eat you alive. Come. Let me help.”
Deep breath, Prim.
I glanced down at my ankle-length, pleated nude blush skirt and ivory satin blouse that had different-colored books printed all over it. What could she possibly mean? I’d spent hours scouring the racks of Forever 21 for the perfect outfit that represented someone put together. Someone refined, fresh out of college, and ready to jump into the workforce. Not someone who lounged on their couch in sweatpants, binge-watching Orange Is the New Black over a tub of ice cream while simultaneously scrolling through Facebook, making faces at all their friends who were getting married and having babies and being successful at life and shit.
That totally wasn’t me.
I mean … okay, fine, maybe that was me, but it wouldn’t be anymore once I landed this job.
“First off, I love the floral Doc Martens. Classic.” Poppy kissed her fingers in a spritely Italian fashion. “Second, you can’t go wrong with nude blush. Can I get a fuck yeah? But …” She spun so suddenly, I stumbled back a step. “And this is a strong but. Quinn’s a shark. And by shark, I mean, a vicious, blood-sniffing feminazi. Though I love her for it, you, my dear, are a bucket of chum in the water.”
My last shred of dignity dropped its jaw. “How?”
She grabbed a compact mirror off of what I assumed was her desk and then turned it on me. “You’re sweet. From those big, bursting baby blues of yours to the perfect curls in your hair, you’re a walking billboard of sugary sweetness. A modern-day nun. If it’s not screaming in your style, it’s definitely shouting from the way you hold yourself. This place is cutthroat. Quinn thrives on ruthlessness.”
Cutthroat. Ruthless. Got it.
I went to put my hands on my hips, visions of Wonder Woman in her famous pose dancing in my head, but then hesitated and dropped my arms to my sides. “I … I’m not sugary. I can be sour too. Sometimes spicy.”
“Are you a Thai dish?”
My lips opened and then shut. Touché.
“But I thought this blog was about women and romance and power … not fashion.”
Poppy snorted. “You think power and fashion don’t go hand in hand?”
I didn’t dare answer that.
“For the love of penis … here.” Poppy undid the first two buttons on my blouse. “Show a little flesh.”
I glanced down at my chest, which was now visible through the sliver of fabric she’d opened—something I’d never think to do. The less skin I showed, the less I felt invaded by ogling eyes.
After unpinning my hair and giving it a small plumping, she glanced at my shoes. “Size six?”
I nodded.
She disappeared behind the cubicle wall, only to emerge with a pair of pointed-toe nude heels. A quick dangle, and I realized they were …
“Are those Louboutins?”
She handed them over. “I always keep a spare around for emergencies. Luckily for you, we’re the same size.”
I didn’t know how to feel. On one hand, my feet had never even touched such fine footwear. On the other, she’d just called me an emergency.
“Thanks,” I said as she rolled out her chair.
I quickly shifted out of my boots and into the red bottoms, which fit like a glove. What a cliché, I knew, but seriously, remember how it felt watching Cinderella as she slipped her foot into the glass slipper right after Lady Tremaine thought she had one-upped her. That was this moment. After a broken Kindle and ruined bagels, I’d take the win where I could get it.
Prim—1.
Shitty Monday morning—0.
“There.” She admired me as if I were a piece of art she’d just created. “That should get you by.” She glanced at the folder peeking out of the top of my bag on the floor. “Is that your portfolio?”
I nodded.
“May I?”
I pulled it out and handed it to her. At this rate, I’d take all the advice I could get.
“Wait a minute … I know you,” she said when she glanced up from the pages. “I’ve read a few of your blog posts. The one you wrote about millennials and love was stellar. Come. I’ll take you to Quinn.”
A personal escort … that had to stand for something, right? I’d only been there maybe ten minutes, yet it already felt like I was walking into a death trap. But uncertainty only fueled me, and I was determined to make this work.
I had to; otherwise, I wouldn’t be able to afford the essentials, like Netflix and ice cream and, you know, a roof over my head.
“Quinn’s probably on a call, so when you’re in her office, don’t speak until spoken to. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“Don’t be shy either.”
Don’t be shy. Advice I’d heard too many times to count, as if it were a cure.
“And don’t fidget.”
“No fidgeting. Got it.”
She gave me a swift, gentle pat on the back. “Okay, here we are. Good luck.”
I peered into the office window. Watched as Quinn battled with someone on the phone. She was shorter than I’d imagined. Somewhere around my height with a straight-pressed bob of jet-black hair and an angular face. Her eyes were rimmed in smoky tones, and her thin lips popped with red. Wearing a black pencil skirt and white blouse with red heels, every word she spoke punctuated off her lips with purpose.
“Wow … she’s so—”
“Boss bitch? I know.” Poppy watched her with a longing sort of dreaminess. “One could only aspire to follow in her man-crushing heels.”
“Man-crushing?”
“There’s a secret to Quinn. She came from our rival blog, Stud.” Poppy leaned closer, and I knew whatever she was about to say was juicy. My inner gossip queen squealed with joy. “Truth is, she and the owner of Stud—dubbed He Who Shan’t Be Named—Harrison Cunningham, started it up together, formerly known as The Cosmos. Rumor has it, they were a thing. Like nearly walking down the aisle kind of thing. The blog was supposed to feature both women and men, but Harrison phased her out. Thus the beginning of Virago—a woman’s wrath.”
I watched in partial horror, partial awe as Quinn faced the New York skyline with hands propped on her waist. Spine pulled in a taut, confident line. Shoulders squared up to whatever might be thrown at her.
Defiance seeped past the door.
This was my potential new boss. The woman I had to impress in order to obtain my dream job. I glanced at the borrowed heels with a bout of bile pressing against the back of my throat.
Why did I have to wear the pleated skirt?
The border of my bubbly dream slowly collapsed.
“Poppy?” I called to her disappearing form.
“Yeah?”
“Does she bite?”
Her grin said it all.
With a deep breath, I knocked on the open door.
After a few tense moments, Quinn’s gaze swung in my direction. “Who are you?”
Three words that carried as much bite as a starved pit bull.
I gulped. Tried to mimic her surly pose. “I’m Primrose Amberly. I’m here for the new position.” I stepped forward and set my portfolio on her desk.
A sigh accompanied a swift roll of the eyes as she leaned toward the phone on her desk. “That article your little journalist boys wrote was complete and utter shit, and you know it, Harrison. I told you a thousand times, you come for me, and I’ll come for you tenfold.”
A throaty, baritone chuckle pulsed through the speaker of the phone. “Oh, Quinny.”
Her shoulders stiffened. “Fuck off, Harry.”
“I hate it when you call me that.”
“Then, we’re even.” With the swift punch of her finger, she ended the call.
She immediately started busying herself with papers on her desk. Moving some to the side. Throwing others in the overflowing bin beside her desk.
“Do you know the difference between a man and a pig, Primrose?” she asked, taking her seat. Elbows pressed against the desk as she waited for my answer.
My thoughts scrambled to keep up with the facts I knew, but none had the chance to leave my lips because she abruptly cut me off.
“Exactly. Me neither.”
The air around her expanded and contracted, all at the same time. Like a black hole. A maybe five-foot-four-sized hole, but black nonetheless.
She gave me a flippant once-over that had my feet twisting in. With a snatch, she grabbed my portfolio and began the ever-stressful process of weeding through it while I stood there, trying not to break out into a panicked sweat.
“I see stuff about love and millennials.” She paused. “Ah … and of course, more about love. Blah, blah. This is all very vanilla.” She looked up. “Who accepted your application?”
Ruthless, Prim. Be ruthless.
“You did.” I paused, fully aware of the edge to my voice. “Ma’am.”
“Oh Jesus. Who says ma’am anymore?” With a groan, she stood and stalked around the desk.
I didn’t waver. “I do. It’s the polite thing to do.”
Her eyes were like magnifying glasses. Inspecting every inch. Digging past the layer of skin, down into the parts I hid. Her gaze returned to my portfolio, and she flipped through page after page of my posts. “ ‘Love That’s Written in the Stars.’ ‘Is Your Romeo Out There?’ ‘True Love—Fact or Fiction?’ ‘Saving Yourself for the Right One.’ ” She dropped the portfolio on her desk. “It’s all rainbows and unicorn imagery, Primrose.” She propped her hip against the desk. “You’re a virgin, aren’t you?”
Okay, pause.
Yes.
I was a virgin in every way … even when it came to kissing. Though the kissing part I blamed on the movie Look Who’s Talking. That whole opening scene where the woman was kissing a guy, which led to a baby? Yeah. That had me believing that was how babies were made. At least up until eighth grade health class, that was. Add to that my mother threatening to sew my lips together—both kinds—if I even blinked within the radius of the opposite sex … it equaled a recipe for disaster. Or in my case, a recipe for celibate lips.
Okay, let’s resume this train wreck.
“Don’t get shy on me now,” Quinn continued. “You did read the disclosure, didn’t you?”
My fingers started to shake at my sides, my pulse beating triple fold. “Of course.”
“Then, you’re aware, nothing is sacred here. We write about sex. We talk about sex. This whole building was built on the back of sex.” She gave a grim sigh. “Frankly, I don’t think you’re ready for this. Sorry.” She peered past me. “Poppy can walk you out. I know you’re out there, Poppy.”
Poppy’s head appeared around the open doorway, a telling grin to her lips. “Quinn, give her a chance. She’s good at this. I can vouch for her. Besides”—she smirked—“you’re just salty because of Harrison.”
Quinn’s gaze cast upward at the mention of Harrison, and I want to cram my foot in my mouth for Poppy. “That isn’t it at all.” She turned her wicked eyes back to me. “The reality is, good gets eaten alive in this industry. We need great. Not good.” She paced behind her desk, already pinning her attention to something more worthy. “Now, if you’ll excuse me. I’ve got a man-child to deal with.”
With a brisk wave, she ushered us out.
My shoulders were slumped to the floor as I headed out of her office. I’d freaking blown it. In seconds, my dreams had gone from soaring high to crashing right at my feet. It had happened so fast. I was still scrambling to piece together what went wrong. Still trying to tame the spiky ball bouncing hard behind my chest that tore and scraped at my shame.
“Tough go?” Poppy clutched an iPad to her chest.
“You heard. I bombed.”
She stopped mid-hallway and faced me. “Listen, Prim. Can I call you Prim?”
I gave a weak nod.
“I know we just met, but I have this feeling about you. And my feelings are never off. You’d thrive here. You just … you’ve got to fight for it.”
“Fight?”
“Hell yeah. Like all the greats. The Suffragettes. Eleanor Roosevelt. Fuck … Rosie the Riveter.” Laughter spilled past her lips. “That’s what we stand for here. Kicking ass and taking names. Plugging away until we break through that damn glass ceiling.” Her gaze leveled on me. “You want this job?”
“Badly.”
“Then, here’s a tip: WWQD—What Would Quinn Do? March back in there and don’t take no for an answer.”
Her words fastened themselves to my brain like tiny bombs, ticking off every few seconds, eradicating any self-doubt.
“You’re right,” I said, nodding with her. Channeling my inner Gloria Steinem. “I’ve got this. The job is mine.”
“Yes.”
“Yeah,” I said, still nodding. Probably more than was necessary.
Hey … whatever worked.
With renewed confidence, I marched into Quinn’s office and stood in front of her desk.
She was mid-call when she glanced up. “Did you forget something?”
“Yes, your warm welcome into my new job.”
Holy shit. I just said that.
Her perfectly groomed eyebrow lifted as her sharp gaze examined every subtle nuance of my face, searching for any sign of weakness.
Though my heart had practically crawled up my throat, I continued, “I might come off as sw
eet and inexperienced, but I’m the best at what I do. I don’t cower from a crisis. I don’t give up. And my writing is definitely not vanilla. All you have to do is give me an assignment—just one—and I swear, by the end of it, you’ll want to give me all your best leads.”
There was a soft chuckle from the speaker on Quinn’s phone. “Oh, I like her,” a woman said on the other end of the line.
“No one asked you, Lydia.” Quinn groaned and then pushed a button that put Lydia on hold.
She reached for a pencil. Tap, tap, tap it went against the desk as the seconds shook with uncertainty. She chewed on the inside of her cheek, her head tilted. “Poppy,” her steely voice called.
Poppy’s head peered once again around the doorway. “Yes?”
“Get me the book.”
Poppy’s eyes widened for a moment—a sign I took for fear—and then she disappeared. I immediately questioned myself based off her reaction.
What book was Quinn talking about? What fresh hell had I just committed myself to?
As we waited for Poppy to return, silence drummed its fingers between us. I thought of a thousand different things to say but couldn’t find the confidence I’d just used to say them. It had all been sapped out of me by Poppy’s worried glance.
When Poppy finally reappeared, I took a deep breath. She smiled at me as she handed the book to Quinn, but the smile wobbled.
Quinn flipped through the pages littered with words. It looked like a personal journal. Some pages scattered with drawings. Others with pasted magazine articles. She flipped with familiarity, as if she’d done it a thousand times. “You have a sweet face.”
I smiled. “Thank you.”
“Oh, you won’t be thanking me in a second.” She stilled. Pointed to a page and smirked. “Well, Primrose … it seems I’ve found something that will pop that Virago cherry of yours.”
I straightened, squaring my shoulders.
The grin that snaked across her lips sent a chill down my spine. “I’ve been wanting to run a piece on how to turn a player into a stayer in thirty days. But”—her eyes skimmed me over—“in order for that to work, you’d have to have a guy interested. Do you have a boyfriend?”
“No.”
“Talking to anyone?”
Love in the Headlines: A Star-Crossed Friends-To-Lovers Romance (Love in the Headlines Series Book 1) Page 3