Page 7 of Faker
When I’m back at my office, I plop down in my chair, stunned. I now have to squeeze in bicker sessions with Tate in addition to my regular work during the week. Great.
“That was a weak showing in there.”
I stop typing to see Tate hovering at my open doorway. “What?”
“Look, I know you don’t want to do this extra project, but it’s for a good cause,” he says. “Quit whining and suck it up.”
I narrow my eyes at him. “Maybe you should have consulted with me before announcing your grand plan to Lynn.”
He shakes his head at me. “Like you would have said yes.”
My silence is a reluctant agreement. I would have absolutely shot it down.
“How will we even get this project off the ground? We have a hard enough time sitting across the hall from each other.”
“Ah yes, here we go with the theatrics. Give it a rest, Emmie.”
“Do you know how long it takes to build a house from the ground up? About a year. That means we’ll have to work together—one-on-one—for the next twelve months.”
He stares at me with a neutral expression, as if he’s suddenly forgotten our volatile work history.
“This has disaster written all over it.”
“Don’t knock it till you try it.”
He pushes off my doorframe and runs a hand roughly through his blond waves before looking at me. I glare at him. He glares back. We are beyond ridiculous.
“Fine,” I huff. “Let me know how you feel after we’ve both gone hoarse from yelling at each other.”
He rolls his eyes. “Would you prefer if we collaborated over the phone? Or we could do all of our meetings via Gchat, not a single word muttered out loud the whole time. We’d still be four feet from each other, but we wouldn’t technically be inhabiting the same space. Would that meet your standards of conduct in the workplace, Ms. Echavarre?”
“Don’t even go there. Maybe I wouldn’t be so hesitant to work with you if you showcased a smidgen of professionalism, instead of sarcastic comments and snide remarks.”
I catch him clenching his jaw before I look away and grab the first object that comes into view. Distracting myself by thumbing through a multi-tool catalog doesn’t work. I’m too wound up to come up with anything coherent to write at the moment.
“Quit being so dramatic,” he says. “Who knows? You may actually enjoy working with me. Stranger things have happened.”
The most obnoxiously smug expression clouds his face. He knows the thought of having to work with him directly is making me crawl out of my skin, and he loves it.
“Fat chance,” I say.
“Give it time. I’m quite charming.”
“You’re not. Believe me. I know charming, and you absolutely are not it.”
He raises an eyebrow at me. “Really? And what’s charming, Emmie?”
“The exact opposite of you.”
He crosses his arms, still facing me. I’ve still got my nose in the catalog, trying to demonstrate it’s more interesting than him.
“Is that so?”
I drop the catalog on my lap, tilting my face up to him. I may be sitting, but we’re in a standoff for sure. Our stiff posture and scowls make us look like two cowboys aching to draw our guns and blast each other away.
“It doesn’t even matter. When we’re together, it’s always a complete disaster.”
His face drops. I can’t put my finger on his expression, but it is no longer smug.
