Page 20 of A Hard Sell

Thomas smiled at him, the corners of his mouth curling up far enough to crinkle his eyes a bit.The biggest smile yet.Luka tucked the memory of this one away to think about later. The moment stretched out. “What’s next?” Luka asked to break the silence.

“We’re heading up the team for the commercials. Scripts, casting…”

Luka’s eyes bugged out.“We?”

“Yes, ‘we’. Aleandro said he wanted you as a lead with me.”

Luka opened his mouth then closed it again. “Uh. Wow. Okay.” He tried not to fidget.

Thomas was still smiling at him. “Let’s get those scripts done.”

They were just getting down to work when Morgan slunk by, casting a furtive glance into Luka’s office. Then he walked past again a few minutes later. By the third time, it hit Luka.He wants to ask for help, but he can’t because Thomas is here.Luka answered one of Thomas’ questions and ignored the pathetic man in the hallway with great satisfaction.

When it was time for a stretch break, Luka headed down the hall to the washroom. Aleandro and Penelope were standing together outside Ilona’s office. Her face was turned up, his bent down to her. They weren’t touching, but they smiled at each other. Then Aleandro ran a finger down her arm as he whispered something to her. The stern lines from Penelope’s face were gone. She just looked…happy.

An unexpected wave of yearning swamped him as he passed by. He wondered if they had met at work. Because being in loveandbeing co-workers clearly was not a problem for them.

He continued to ponder the idea of successful workplace romance until Morgan found him while he was washing his hands. “Lukaaa.” The high-pitched voice dragged out his name.

Fuck.Luka braced himself and turned, drying his hands with a paper towel. “What’s up, Morgan?”

“Well…” He batted his eyelashes. “I was wondering if you had a few minutes to take a look at the changes I made to the score.” It wasn’t that Morgan was incompetent. He was well educated—a double major in music theory and sound design from a prestigious school—and his work was fine. It was just missing a spark…an ineffable quality that made it memorable. And it seemed like he knew it, too.

Luka clenched his jaw. “Not really. Thomas is riding me pretty hard to get the scripts finalized.” Yes, he was a petty man who chose ‘riding me hard’ on purpose.

“Please? It will only take a second.” Morgan’s lower lip stuck out.

“No, Morgan. It won’t. You’ll have me redoing the entire thing and I don’t have time.”

Morgan’s eyes narrowed as he dropped the act. “I wonder what Thomas would think about us secretly dating.”

“I already told him,” Luka replied, stomach clenching.

Morgan arched his eyebrow. “Oh, really? You told him we were fucking formonthsand didn’t mention it to HR?”

Luka was paralyzed by guilt. Because no, he hadn’t exactly told Thomas that. He didn’t reply.

Morgan chuckled. “I don’t think Ilona would be happy, either.”

The words washed over him, settling in his gut. “Are youblackmailingme?”

Pressing a hand to his chest, Morgan gazed at Luka with wide, innocent eyes. “I would never.”

This piece of absolute shit. Luka had worked so hard at this job, given it his all. The idea of Morgan fucking it all up for him, of getting him kicked right off the ladder…of never seeing Thomas again… “Fine,” Luka growled through clenched teeth, hating himself almost as much as he hated Morgan. “Let me have a look.”

What stung the most about Morgan, a knife twisting in his back, was that he had let his guard down. Trusted him enough that he played his guitar for him. The list of people who had heard him play since he was thirteen—since theSay HiHorror—contained exactly three people outside of his family—Tawney, Finn and Morgan. The humiliation burned fresh in his mind.

Luka had been a gangly kid, always tall for his age, with huge feet. This had progressed into an awkward adolescence, all bumbling legs and arms. The easy charm and confidence he had now as an adult, when his long limbs started working for him rather than against him, was nowhere to be found at thirteen. Money was tight, and his clothes and shoes were wrong. His lunches were wrong, too. The other kids had been telling him since he could remember that the food his mom packed was weird—rich, fragrant soups and stews in his thermos. Everyone else had sandwiches, if they even bothered to eat at all. The things he liked to do at school—paint and draw and sketch—were wrong. He had no interest in playing sports. That was wrong. He was wrong, wrong, wrong.

His parents didn’t understand. His mom was baffled as to why he wasn’t the most popular boy in school. “Do they know you play the guitar?” she asked one day. Her five o’clock appointment had made a rare cancellation, and she appeared in the kitchen to eat dinner with the rest of them. Normally she missed it, because after school and early evening were prime piano lesson hours. She made the dinners during the day, when she just had a few housewives for clients, the ones looking to rediscover the music in their fingers that had been worn down by years of cooking, cleaning and caring for their families. She popped the meals in the oven and left them to warm so they were ready for the family when her husband got home.

“They don’t care that I play the guitar, Mom,” Luka mumbled into his beef stew. He knew the leftovers would be in his thermos tomorrow.

“They would care,” Marta insisted. “If they knew.”

“Of course they would,” his dad agreed.

Well, maybe. Luka knew he was good. He could play the guitar like he’d been born doing it, could hear a melody and recreate it on the piano without even thinking. He had heard the torturous sounds made by his mom’s students for as long as he could remember, and he knew he was better than just about all of them.

---