Page 4 of So Not My Type

“What’s my type?” She lifted a brow.

“You’re a baby boomer wrapped in a Gen Z body. Pretty sure you’d rather knit than go on a pub crawl.”

She popped a hand to her hip. “I’ll have you know that methodical stitching is incredibly therapeutic and a good way to release tension.”

“While watchingWheel of Fortune.” He grinned into his mug.

“Best game show ever, and I’ll never let you tell me otherwise.”

He laughed and stretched his neck, looking behind her. “Looks like George is making his way here with the new hire.”

“Poor thing,” she muttered, and ignored Malcolm’s fatherly glare. She looked down at the pile of black chipped nail polish in her lap, unaware she’d scraped off nearly everything from her fingers. Oops.She brushed it into her hands and clapped it into the wastebasket.

George walked in, his massive frame hiding whoever was behind him.

She could smell his deep, musky scent that was probably some super-expensive brand, but it overpowered the small room. Did he bathe in it? Running out of time to eat breakfast this morning was doing her no favors, as the combo of the sickly-sweet smell and her empty stomach made her want to gag.

“Sophie! Did you get a new haircut?”

Do not roll eyes.She’d been buzzing her hair since she was fifteen, and once a month he asked her the same question.

“Ha ha.” He smacked his palms together. “I’m just messing around.”

You don’t say…

His thunderous voice banged against the walls. “You need to smile more.”

Dammit.That was on my bingo card!She pushed out a grin.

Stepping aside, he waved his arm at the woman behind him. “I’d like to introduce you to our new project manager. Meet my daughter?—”

“Ella,” Sophie choked out. The air vanished from the room. Sophie’s hand flew to the back of her neck and slid up and down the prickles.

Ella looked different from when Sophie last saw her six years ago. Black bangs so straight they looked like a titanium sharp-edged razor sliced them. Tortoiseshell, chunky frames covered deep brown eyes. Ruby-red, flatlined lips. Perfectly matched, freshly manicured, blood-red nails. The same pretentious, narrowed eyes that made Sophie cry her first week on the job.

Ella tugged once on the edge of her crisp, tailored, navy power suit that absolutely cost more than Sophie’s monthly rent. Who the hell did she think this was, anyway? No one wore suits. She was joining a Seattlecreativeagency—home of purple hair, sleeve tattoos, and ripped jeans. Not a stuffy financial institution.

Standing beside George, Ella wasn’t subtle as her gaze trailed over Sophie. And for the first time in forever, Sophie’s insides flared with heat. She wiggled her toes inside her heavy combat boots and wondered why the hell she’d chosen today to wear her ripped purple-and-black fishnet stockings.

The black-haired demon shook Sophie’s hand, absent of any emotion, except for a hint of a smirk when she looked at Sophie’s chipped nails. “Hi, Sophie. Good to see you again.”

TWO

ELLA

The door slammed against the single-stall, gender-neutral bathroom wall on the ninth floor of the Mahogany and Moon Creative Agency. Ella locked it behind her and flailed her hand under the paper towel dispenser’s sensor. “Come on, come on.” She balled the towels in her hand, doused them with cold water, and held the sodden lump against her neck. The tiled wall was cool against her forehead as she rested against it until her blazing internal temperature lowered. How in the hell did she let her mother convince her to wear this goddamn suit? She looked like a kid trying to play dress-up, and everyone here knew it.

A few hours ago, she was in mom jeans, low heels, and a knitted sweater, going through her breathing exercises before her mother barged into her room. “Oh, honey. No. Not for your orientation day. You want them to respect you, right? Wear the suit we bought last weekend. You don’t want to embarrass your father or have anyone think you’re not serious about this job.” She’d turned to shut the door, but paused. “Put your lips on, dear. You look so pale.”

And Ella listened to her, of course. She always fucking listened to her, but that would change. Soon, she wouldn’thaveto listen to her at all. She flipped the paper towel for a coolnessjolt and counted in reps of four. She tried to shake the image of the most awkward five minutes of her life when she’d stood in Malcolm’s office, and stared at the woman who was so rude, who shot so many death glares at her when she visited years ago, that she’d avoided her on every visit to her father’s office since then.

Her father had told her a project manager would train her in, but Malcolm was just coming off paternity leave and needed to check schedules. Why in the hell hadn’t she asked more questions? She’d just blindly nodded and followed his lead, like always.

But enough was enough. She was a college graduate,finally, and ready to be an actual, working adult. And although she had no real sense of finances, the starting salary seemed pretty decent. If she saved, she’d only have to work here a few months to earn enough for a security deposit and down payment.Freedom.

Did it suck having to take a job at her father’s office? Sure. But it was a necessary evil. And, admittedly, after the twentieth application auto-rejection, she realized how lucky she was to have this level of connection. Not that she blamed the other companies for rejecting her. Right now, her resume was hardly a thrilling read. Experience—none. First job—nope. Hard skills—zip. Technical skills—logging into her social media account. Budget experience—does having an Amex at twelve years old count? Probably not.

But she wouldn’t be here for long. She simply needed to learn the trade tricks and move on.

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