Page 1 of More Than Words

ISOBEL

Boston

The obnoxious clicking of my heels echoed after me as I hurried across the marble tiled lobby of my office building. I was late, and my Uber driver would bail if I didn’t get my ass outside in the next two minutes. My rider rating couldn’t take a hit, or I’d be pushed back down with the idiots who drank too much and puked all over someone’s seats, or who got dinged because they were morally opposed to basic personal hygiene. Since I’d sold my car, I relied on having a good rating to get to and from work—on time—most days.

“Finally,” the young driver sighed as I slid into the backseat of his idling Toyota and pulled the door closed. “Took yah long enough, lady. It’s rush hour, and I can’t have yah killin’ my rides for tha rest of the night.”

“Sorry,” I huffed, trying to straighten my long pencil skirt. Changing after my meeting was out of the question since the executive marketing team’s presentation had run long. Those lucky bastards didn’t have to go to this ridiculous team-building event that Sloane, my boss, had arranged with the publishing house genre heads. “Missed the elevator and had to run barefoot down ten flights of stairs.”

“Bet that was somethin’ tah see,” he smirked, but quickly averted his eyes at the glare I returned. Men.

This was why I was keeping to myself lately. No matter the age or walk of life, men were constantly judging me based on my looks. Apparently, tall, blonde, and dimpled warranted the male population of Boston and the surrounding tri-state area to think I was a ditz or a whore. Or both. Never mind that I worked my ass off in High School to get out of my tiny midwestern town and earn a scholarship to an Ivy League university. It couldn’t possibly register with them I worked three jobs—and no, none of them were stripping, although it might have paid better—during undergrad and grad school to pay for what my scholarships didn’t cover. Which was a lot when you lived halfway across the country from your family, who pretended you didn’t exist because you left behind the family farm to do something they considered pointless.

But none of that mattered because if you had a vagina, so you clearly couldn’t be taken seriously half the time. I hated that my career was seemingly at a standstill. I hated that the genre I chose to edit was constantly being trashed, despite the millions of dollars in revenue it generated for the publishing house each year.

But fuck dwelling on what I couldn’t change because those bastards could lick the sole of my one pair of Louboutin heels if they had a problem with me being an empowered woman.

I could survive in Boston just fine without a support network. I had friends, sort of. And I had loyal co-workers, well…I had dedicated interns. Plus, I had the support of my boss, who inspired women in the publishing industry everywhere.

“We’re here,” the Uber driver announced quietly, looking warily at me in the mirror. Maybe my stony glare and ten minutes of silence had changed his decision to make smartass comments about my appearance. But I wasn’t expecting miracles. He just wouldn’t say them to my face. I was sure the word bitch would be muttered as soon as my door closed, but as I pushed a strand of sweaty hair behind my ear, I didn’t care.

“Thank you,” I sighed, plastering on my biggest smile, and quickly gathering my things to make my way into the ax-throwing bar. I was already late and didn’t want to stay any later than I had to.

“Alright, listen up, people.” Sloane called the group to order once I’d settled in at a barstool, my co-workers quieting down. “The teams are as follows. Chloe and Roger are in bay one against Logan and Ryker. Amanda and I are in bay two against Julia and Mark. Kyle and Zuki are in bay three against Elliot and Hilla. Fred and Reilly are in bay four against Donna and Jacob. And last but certainly not least, Lorenzo and Kate in bay five against Isobel and Adrian.”

“Oh, joy,” I muttered under my breath as Adrian walked through the crowd toward me. “I get to partner with Dickhead.”

Yes, he was objectively handsome—tall, with broad, muscular shoulders, light blue eyes, and hair as dark as ink on a crisp white page. In fact, the first time I’d seen him, I’d stopped short, my heart beating erratically as I watched him verbally berating the copy machine on our floor. He’d somehow managed to get paper sheets stuck in every place it could jam inside the machine. That’s what he got for trying to duplex print an entire manuscript—using an ancient copier that was notorious for eating anything that enters it—rather than ordering a bound copy from the printing department. Rookie mistake.

I’d thought it was adorable. The scowl on his full lips, the muttered curse words thrown into his thick Bostonian accent, but then he’d noticed me watching, delivered one sexist come-on, and I’d disliked him ever since.

Want to fix this for me, gorgeous? You’re probably more familiar with this beast than I am. Then he gave me a smarmy full-body scan and said something even worse. On second thought, I got this. Wouldn’t want you to get that skirt dirty since I’d love to see you in it again.

Adrian O’Neill was arrogant. He was an asshole. He treated some interns like they were worse than gum stuck on the soles of his expensive Italian leather shoes. He was a genre elitist. And despite all that, he was annoyingly good at his job. I’d never seen another editor quite as good at plucking obscure authors out of a submissions pile and getting them to the top of all the must-read charts. He often saw potential in authors that others overlooked. It made me simultaneously in awe of him and constantly befuddled when he continued curating this crude playboy persona.

And worst of all, he was easily the most attractive man I’d ever seen when he kept his mouth shut. He’d look even sexier with a piece of duct tape covering it. There was something about the set of his lips and how his eyes crinkled when he was about to say something stupid. He knew half the shit he said would get a negative reaction, but he said it anyway. The man had absolutely no filter.

He was also a misogynistic jerk. And did I mention arrogant?

“Hey, Is, long time no see,” he greeted. The polished professional façade fully in place. This was the face most people saw. They didn’t see the strong Boston accent and the sarcastic quips I’d spied when he interacted with people outside the office. I was certain the phrase ‘wicked smart’ had never passed his lips on company property. And his you’s and yeah’s sounded nothing other than crisp and perfectly enunciated.

When he was in work mode, he was on. Degree from Boston College with honors, a deep voice with perfect inflection, every strand of shiny dark hair precisely in place, expensive suits with expert double Windsor knots in designer silk ties.

Once, just once, I wanted to see the veneer crack and see the real Adrian. The one he’d buried deep under this giant douche persona. I knew there had to be more than met the eye, or ear, but he was so insistent on cultivating the office asshole persona that he never let anyone see past the bullshit. I recognized professional armor, as I often wore it myself.

“Adrian.” I nodded, hating that the hairs on the back of my neck stood on end when his arm brushed against mine.

“Are you sure you can handle doing this in those shoes?” he asked, leaning toward me so only I could hear his words. “Not that they aren’t amazing, but I can’t see three-inch heels being good for your balance.”

“Can you handle this with the three inches you pack below the belt? I mean, I’m sure you think it’s amazing, but it can’t be good for…well, anyone,” I hissed, stepping away from him. I bumped into Lorenzo, grimacing as his drink sloshed over the edge of his glass.

“You alright there, Isobel?” Lorenzo asked as he reached over to steady me with a hand on my elbow.

“She’s fine.” Adrian’s calloused fingertips closed over my other elbow, and I wobbled as my eyes darted between the two handsome men who towered over me.

“No thanks to you, I’m sure,” Renz muttered as he narrowed his eyes at Adrian. There was no love lost between the two rival editors. Adrian was an asshole, which most of the interns, including my own, called Dickhead. Lorenzo was the office eye candy, and the interns frequently ogled his vast collection of snug dress slacks.

Lorenzo was nice, but his nice-guy personality left nothing about him to the imagination. A good heart wrapped in a pretty package. While that should have been attractive—especially to a woman who was nearly out of her thirties and should be thinking about settling down someday—it seemed a little anticlimactic. What you saw was what you’d get. All that you’d get.

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