Page 20 of Dear Pink

“Of course, you’re interested, dear,” June says, giving Maude the evil eye.

I open my mouth to argue with June when an image of Mr. Fancy in the elevator flashes before me. That hot biker with the tight tush won’t go away. I shiver, remembering how he loomed above me with his muscles and impeccable smile. I bet he’s even hotter without bike clothes. Ugh. I’ll never see him again. Should I stalk the marketing department in the hopes he visits his sister? What would I say if I saw him? “Oh yeah, there’s no such thing as polo bears. I’m a terrible editor and a sniffling idiot.”

“Perhaps we should get to work?” Maude’s pinched lips turn into a small smile. “Hannah’s new appearance has distracted us enough from our deadlines.” She turns to leave, but not before giving me a tender pat on my shoulder. “Oh, and Hannah, dear, you look beautiful.”

“Thank you, Maude.” I give June the side-eye, hoping she’ll get back to work too. Getting Maude’s panties in a wad before a full day of deadlines is a terrible idea.

***

After finishing my global edits, I decide to forgo lunch on the fifth-floor break room and take advantage of the sunny day. With my granola bar and sketch pad in hand, I find a nice perch outside our building with shade and a light breeze.

Twenty minutes in, I’ve designed a labyrinth for a children’s book on my edit list. Behind tall grass hedges, I’ve added lions and otters dressed in business attire, riding bikes. My illustration complements the book better than the author’s. If only I could submit drawings instead of copy edits. I shake my head and remember my job. I work in the editorial department. I have no business redesigning this picture book. I lift my sketchpad into the sunlight to check what the image lacks.

“Hey, that’s incredible,” a male voice says.

I almost jump out of my skin. “Holy shit tacos. I didn’t see you there.” One of the guys from the illustration department stands close beside me.

He laughs. “You work in the graphic department? Don’t think I’ve seen you around before.”

I want to hide behind my hair, but my escape hatch is gone. I cut off my invisibility cloak. Instead, I shake my head no. I’m mortified he caught me drawing. It isn’t my job to design.

“This is nothing. I’m playing around.”

He grins and sticks out his hand. I shake it and admonish myself for getting caught by a real artist.

“May I see your sketch pad?” he asks, my hand still in his.

“Uhh. No.” I snatch my hand away and clutch my sketchpad, hoping he gets the message and goes away.

“No?” He barks out a laugh. “You're funny.”

“I am?” Can’t he recognize acute panic when he sees it?

He stares, his forehead wrinkled in confusion. “If you don’t work here, you should.”

I squint at him. He’s a few years older than me. His expression is sincere.

“I . . . I do. Work here. I’m in . . . in the editing department.” My stammering sounds dodgy.

“In the dungeon?”

I choke on my laugh. “Yeah, the basement.”

“How do they get away with stashing you underground? It’s inhumane. You’re not bridge trolls.”

I laugh at his comparison. I can’t wait to tell Maude. She likes to call us the corpses because the place is as cold as a morgue. “Tell me about it.”

“I’m Wade.” He puts his hand out once more as if I’ll change my mind and give him the sketch pad.

I clasp the pad close to my chest. “I’m Hannah. Troll and editor.”

“And artist.” He drops his hand with a good-natured shrug.

“Not so much. I doodle.” Ugh, I sound like a wannabe.

“Well, your doodles are a hell of a lot better than many of our resident artists. Speaking of,” he peers at his phone, “I’m meeting my team in ten. See you around.”

“Yeah, see you.”

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