Page 8 of More Than Words

“Except I don’t have one.” Isobel frowned, and she finally glanced up to make eye contact with me. This was probably the longest we’d been in the same room, and I hadn’t managed to piss her off yet. Although, I was sure my dumbass could come up with something quickly without trying.

“Then it’s settled. I’m giving you a ride whether you like it or not.”

The corner of her mouth quirked, a naughty little smirk forming as she glanced slowly at where I stood across from her desk. “Well, I have to say your tactics need a little work, but I can see that your confidence isn’t lacking. Probably shouldn’t tell the lady she won’t like it, though. Seems a little counterproductive.”

Fuck.

Blowing a breath, I tried not to take the bait, but as she crossed her arms over her chest, the movement pushed her breasts together enticingly, and my brain short-circuited.

“Well, if I were giving you that kind of ride, there wouldn’t be any doubts about your enjoyment. But you would need to make sure your arms and legs were holding on tight because you might hurt yourself if you fall off.”

She pinched her lips together but couldn’t hide her smile or blush. I knew it was fucking stupid to say that to her, but I couldn’t take it back now, and the more she fought with me, the more I craved the attention, even if it was me being a chauvinistic asshole.

“It’s cute you think I’m interested in riding the kiddie rollercoaster, but don’t worry, I’m sure someone will enjoy your quick and mediocre thrill ride.”

Do not engage.

“Right.” I blew out a breath, fighting back a retort because I didn’t want to say anything else that she could turn around on me. And I definitely didn’t want to offend her too much, since we were spending hours in a car together the next day. “Just email me your address, and I’ll come to get you in the morning. Do we need to stop here before we head north?”

“No,” she shook her head, returning her attention to the chaotic stack of papers on her desk. “I’ll make sure Kristine has all the files she needs before I leave today.”

I must have made a face at the mention of her intern because she narrowed her eyes and pointed toward the hallway.

“You know the way out. I’ll email you if there is anything else we need to go over. I’m sure you’ve got things to take care of for your precious best sellers.”

I couldn’t shake the sense of unease at her comment, hating that things always seemed to sour when we were in the same room. I thought we’d come to a mutual agreement to try to behave around one another at the team-building exercise, but she still despised me. I wanted to say the feeling was mutual, but then I’d be even more of a liar.

I didn’t want to hate her, as easy as it would be to do so. But the walls I’d constructed around myself ensured we’d never be more than colleagues who barely tolerated each other.

She’d made her distaste for me known regularly over the last several years, but I still couldn’t deny I was attracted to her. I never dated within the office, but I’d shamelessly flirted with enough women to get a reaction out of her.

She claimed I was a manwhore. That wasn’t a word I’d use to describe myself. I never went more than a few months between partners, but I was far from having a revolving door of pussy.

I didn’t have the reputation that Hutch had when we were younger, but being the identical twin of the school Casanova—nicknamed Big O when we were fifteen—wasn’t easy. It also meant that having the same face meant girls came after me because of his reputation alone. As a teenager, I wasn’t proud enough to turn down willing partners, even if it was only my looks they were interested in.

It also didn’t hurt in college that I got a lot of leeway from some of my more privileged classmates because I was attractive and an athlete. They didn’t know the only reason I was even attending college was because of the scholarships I’d managed to obtain, and that I lived in the dorms all four years because I couldn’t afford not to. Ma would have been fine with me commuting into the city daily, but Southie was a haul from Boston College, and I’d needed the time to study before and after classes and practice.

That was another thing I found hot about Isobel. We both loved baseball. Despite her choice of teams being a little lacking, it still intrigued me. But she was from the Midwest, so I could see why she was attached to the Cubbies. My fascination with the Sox started when I was barely old enough to hold a bat and continued through me wearing a Sox jersey and riding the pine for a few years after undergrad.

When I returned to my office, Sam was busy working at his small desk in the cubicle right outside my door, going through one of my mystery writer’s newest manuscripts. I’d read the first four chapters, and the plot was solid like Evan’s manuscripts typically were, but something about the character’s interactions seemed clunky. Maybe Evan had spent too much time in seclusion over the last several years and had forgotten how to interact with people. Not that he was too keen on social interaction in general.

“How’s it going?” I asked, leaning against the opening of his workspace. Sam sighed loudly before scrubbing a hand over his face and turning in my direction.

“It’s not good. He’s going to hate it, but several chapters need total rewrites. I don’t see any other way around it.”

“Fuck.” Rubbing my fingers along my chin, I tried to think of the best way to approach this with Evan. He rarely required much hand holding, but I didn’t want one rough storyline to tank his series of best sellers. “Just do a full developmental edit and send me the notes before you say anything to him. I know he’s been showing signs of burnout lately, and I don’t want any criticism to throw him off his game.”

“Alright,” Sam nodded. “I’ll start over from the beginning and create a developmental file to send you.”

“Just make sure you send it to me before you say anything to him. Dealing with Evan requires a little finesse.” Sam smirked, shaking his head. I knew what he was thinking. “I’m capable of dealing with my authors, asshole. You can wipe off that douchey look on your face.”

“Right on, boss,” he laughed, putting his earbud back in and returning his attention to his tablet. I knew he thought I was an asshole, but he’d been a college athlete. He knew how things worked in that environment, especially as a scholarship athlete surrounded by rich kids. Only I wasn’t lucky enough to get through it being the nice guy like he had. At least not the parts of myself I let people see.

ISOBEL

Boston

Checking my watch, I noted the time. Way too fucking early. That was the official time. But really, it was 6:42 am. It was still too fucking early to be awake, dressed—in hindsight, I should have worn something other than a pencil skirt—and waiting in the lobby of my apartment building for Adrian on a Saturday morning.

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