Page 22 of Melt for You (Slow Burn 2)
Only this time it isn’t Mel Gibson who’s leading them into battle.
SEVEN
I’m right in the middle of an enormous yawn the next morning at work when Portia soundlessly appears beside my desk like she’s been teleported to the surface of the planet from the starship Enterprise.
“Good morning, Jillian!”
Startled, I jump, sloshing coffee from the mug I’m holding all over the front of my white blouse. I swear she barks like that just so she can watch me freak out.
“Portia. Hi.” And it’s Joellen, you witch.
She watches with an expression of distaste as I mop up the coffee as best I can with the spare napkins I keep in the top drawer of my desk for emergencies such as these, which occur with depressing regularity. In an ice-blue dress that matches the color of her heart and with her hair swept off her face and tied into a low chignon that showcases her elegant neck, she’s immaculate.
Beside her, I feel like a mangy donkey next to a thoroughbred racehorse.
“Have you finished the edit on Maria’s manuscript?”
I can tell by her tone she’s expecting an excuse, so it gives me satisfaction to hand her the sheaf of banded papers with a smile. Lips pursed, she takes the manuscript from me and thumbs over a few pages, checking my work like a grade school teacher.
If I didn’t desperately need the rest of the coffee in my mug, I’d be tempted to hurl it in her face.
“I understand you spoke with Michael this weekend,” she says offhandedly.
I freeze.
If she knows I spoke to Michael, it must be because he told her. Why would he tell her we spoke? What could that mean?
“Uh . . . I . . . yes. He was working, too. We said hello.”
Her sharp gaze flashes to mine. “You said ‘hello’?” she repeats frostily.
I cringe, wondering what on earth she could find so offensive about me speaking to Michael and how she gets her mouth to pinch like that. It looks painful. “Um . . . yes.”
She stares at me for a moment, waiting for me to elaborate. When I don’t—because I’m too worried about what might fly out of my mouth—she hugs the manuscript to her chest and starts to aggressively tap one manicured fingernail against it.
“Joanna.” Tap. Tap. Tap. “I’m sure I don’t have to remind you that we expect a certain level of . . .” Her gaze travels over my coffee-stained blouse, my unruly hair, my makeup-free face. Tap. Tap. Tap. “Professionalism here at Maddox Publishing.”
A flush of heat crawls up my neck. The words are out before I can stop them. “You mean like calling the employees by their correct names?”
The tapping ceases. She blinks—once, slowly—and it’s terrifying.
I’m saved from certain death by a uniformed delivery man carrying an enormous bouquet of long-stemmed red roses. He stops at the cubicle next to mine. “Is there a Joellen Bixby around here?”
“Right there.” Shasta, the girl who sits at the next desk, stands and points at me accusingly over the top of the cubicle wall like she’s an informant for the Nazis.
The delivery guy ambles past Portia, inadvertently swat
ting her with foliage, and deposits the vase on my desk with a relieved sigh. It’s so huge it takes up almost all the available square footage.
“Man, that sucker’s heavy. Sign here, please.” He thrusts a clipboard into my face while pointing at a signature line on a routing slip.
My hands shake so badly I’m barely able to manage my signature.
Could it be? Could Michael have sent me flowers?
The delivery guy walks off, whistling, while Portia, Shasta, and I stare in disbelief at the roses.
“Well, who’s it from?” demands Shasta.
