Page 15 of Persuading Liam

And that? That’s concerning as fuck.

9

MARLEY

“Feeling better, Miss Green?” Mr. Schuster asks me when I arrive at work the next morning, scaring the absolute shit out of me. I had assumed the man didn’t awake until after ten in the morning. But here he is, perched on the new reception desk as if he roosts there overnight.

“Mr. Schuster,” I say, clutching my Kleenex-filled hand to my chest. “You startled me. But, yes, I’m feeling a little better.” It’s mostly true—after a sinfully delicious meal from Liam, hours of rest, and a decent night sleep filled with steamy Liam-infused dreams, I can feel the fog lifting.

“Glad to hear it.” He hops off the desk and clutches his hands behind him. “I just wanted to see what progress the contractors are making here and, of course, check on you.”

“I appreciate it,” I comment, noticing now that the floors were finished while I was gone the day before. “I think they’re doing a fantastic job. Lightning fast.”

“Ah, well, yes. I made the speed worth their while.”

I don’t know how to respond, so I keep my mouth shut even though I can feel the rise of my eyebrow giving my thoughts away.Who has that kind of money? And why would he throw itat this project?I get that it’s been in his family for a while, but… I brush off my journalistic spidey sense and focus on my boss. “Do you want to see what I have planned so far for the first issue?”

His smile is genuine. “I think you know that I do.”

Smiling, I set my bag on the desk and remove my laptop. I open it to the initial layout. “Keep in mind I’m just trying things out. Anything you don’t like or don’t approve of, I can change in a blink.”

“Not quite like the old letterpress days anymore, is it?”

“Thankfully no, I’d never get anything done,” I comment, stepping out of the way so he can see the screen. My stomach does a nervous flip-flop as he peruses my layout silently and I prepare to blink back tears when he inevitably hates it.

My sense of doom grows as he looks over every inch of what I’ve done, from the graphics to the headings to the page break ornaments. Nothing gets by him.

The disappointed purse of his lips when he finally finishes spikes my anxiety and I grip onto the desk to hold my ground and keep my shit together.

“Miss Green,” he finally says, turning to address me. “I love it. I love how you’ve refreshed the masthead without taking away the old-time charm. And I love the section choices you’ve made so far.”

Oh, thank God. I let out a breath and smile. “I’m just getting started, there will be much more.”

“I have no doubt,” he says, rocking back on his heels. “I knew you were the right person when I read your article on the rising concerns of water quality across rural Wisconsin.”

I blink. I wrote that article for the University of Wisconsin’s newspaper as a Junior there. “You read that?”

“Absolutely. One of your best, I’d say. Followed closely by ‘Why we love to hate these celebrities.’”

I redden and giggle nervously. I was hoping he’d missed the majority of my social media articles, but apparently not. “Hard-hitting journalism for sure.”

“Maybe not the topic, but the writing,” he grins. “Spectacular. Only you could make me care about the best Valentine’s presents to get my boo.”

This time I laugh, grateful that he could see through the topics to what I truly love—writing. “Thank you.”

“No, my dear girl, thankyou. I can’t wait to see this place churning again. I want you to make a list of employees you think we might need to get a short run of our first issue out. I’ve already hired an assistant for you that will also act as a receptionist, but I’ll take your recommendations on the rest.”

I nod, my mind already creating a short list.

“Speaking of which, I think she’s here now.”

“Who?” I ask, distracted, following his eyes to where a very expensive car is pulling up to the building, somehow managing to take up three spots.

“My granddaughter and your new assistant.”

“Oh.” I watch, stomach sinking as a tall, thin, model-gorgeous young lady climbs out of her car on sky-high heels that probably cost more than my rent. Her bright pink body-con dress and jewel-encrusted manicure have me forming an opinion about her that, as a journalist, I should ignore. Only, I’m human too and I’m pretty sure she types at about 15 words per minute if I’m lucky. “She’s beautiful.” Is all I can get out.

“Smart as a whip,” he tells me. “Or she would be if she would apply herself to anything other than fashion and make-up. I think she needs direction, a purpose, and I think you can help her find it.”

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