Page 7 of Token

“I’ve been studying up,” Sahara admitted, grinning and showing off her adorable dimples. “And now I have more clothing design books than I know what to do with. Figured I needed to know a little more about creating a clothing line than what I like to wear.”

It was at that moment Kennedy made up her mind about the singer. She was good people, as her father would say. Definitely not the stuck-up celebrity type. It would be great working with her.

Whoa! Slow your roll, Miss Thing. Are you forgetting that your part in this is all make-believe? You’re an overqualified temp making twenty-two dollars an hour. The company is using you and you’re being rewarded handsomely for it.

A fact she kept front of mind as the presentation commenced.

“I’d like to incorporate green, yellow, and red into a few of the summer pieces.” Sahara addressed John as they approached the end of the meeting, a full two hours later. “And black and white, if it wouldn’t look too busy.”

“Do the colors have a certain significance?” he asked, his expression mildly indulgent.

“They’re the colors of the Guyanese flag,” Kennedy supplied without thinking. When everyone looked at her, brows raised, she responded to the question in their eyes. “Sahara’s father is from Guyana.” A fact anyone could learn from her Wikipedia page. “And so is my mother,” she tagged on belatedly.

“Your mother’s from Guyana!” the singer exclaimed, showcasing her impressive vocal range. “Which part?”

Kennedy pressed her lips together, containing a smile. “Georgetown.”

“That’s where my dad’s from.” Sahara’s eyes danced with excitement. “Oh my god. What are the chances? Small world, right? Listen, after we’re done here, can we go somewhere private to talk? Like your office?” she suggested helpfully.

Or it would have been helpful had they existed in a world where temporary worker Kennedy Mitchell had an office. And as she did not, alarm struck the heart of every man in the room. Their furtive gazes bounced between each other.What do we do? What could she possibly have to say to her that we’re not privy to? Good god, Kennedy’s not even a real employee.

If Kennedy had intended to respond, Mr. Edwards’s look would have cut her off at the quick. “That’s a wonderful idea. Unfortunately, with renovations going on, I’m not sure it’s habitable right now.”

“Oh, you don’t need to worry about me—I’m easy. I don’t mind a little mess. Plus, I’m curious to see where you work,” she said, looking at Kennedy.

That makes two of us.

Mr. Edwards visibly swallowed, his gambit proving unsuccessful. “Then let me have a word with Maureen since she’s in charge of the renovations.” With that, he got up and quickly exited the room.

The meeting wrapped fifteen minutes later, and as everyone availed themselves of what remained of the sandwiches and desserts, Kennedy and Sahara proceeded down the hall to “her office.”

Minutes before, a text from an unfamiliar number appeared on her phone, which she could only surmise came from Maureen.

212-555-7862: The office is the fourth door on the right when you leave the conference room.

Kennedy was about to find out what lay behind door #4. Holding her breath, she opened the door and was immediately struck by dark furniture and tall wooden bookshelves. The identity of the office’s current occupant had been wiped clean. No family pictures or personal memorabilia could be seen anywhere. A large monitor, a stack of folders, and a paperweight sat on the desk, and a large drop cloth covered furniture in the corner, which fit perfectly with the renovation narrative.Quick thinking.

The singer didn’t walk so much as she sashayed, slim hips swinging with a smooth glide to her step when she preceded Kennedy in and crooned a delighted, “Impressive.”

“Thanks.” It was nice but totally not her style. Too much testosterone. Lighter wood and pastel colors were more to her taste.

“Was it totally obnoxious of me to ask to see your office?” Sahara had a mischievous grin on her face as she made herself comfortable in one of the high-backed guest chairs.

“Of course not. I’m sure they see it as a good thing.” When she took a seat inher chair, Kennedy had to bite down on her bottom lip to suppress a moan of pleasure, certain that this chair, with its soft supple leather and gorgeous wood, could spoil her ass for the rest of her life.

“Okay, first things first. Can I get your card? If everything pans out—which I think it will—I’d like you to be my personal contact. Sarah, Ellen, and Mariah can deal with everyone else.”

Kennedy didn’t panic easily, but she also didn’t possess the natural instincts of a consummate liar.

Shit shit shit!

A business card? Even if they’d been able to magically produce one in time for the meeting, what good would it be without a working phone number and extension?

“Um, why don’t I give you my cell number? That way you can get in touch with me night or day. Let me just write it down.”

Kennedy’s gaze made a thorough sweep of the desk. Seriously, not one pen or pencil? Lovely. She tried to open the top drawer, only to find it locked. She then tried the one below. It opened to reveal a box of condoms and a tube of K-Y Jelly. Stifling a gasp, she hastily slammed it shut.

“Wow, someone must have oiled the gears,” she said, her laugh strangled. “Kind of slipped out of my grasp.”

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