Evie

Could this Monday suck any harder?

Scrubbing at the coffee stain on my cream silk blouse with a wet wipe, I muttered a curse under my breath. Today should have been a super-exciting one—after four years of busting my ass in college, it was my first day of work at my first job, finally contributing in a meaningful way. I would be embracing my spot in the family empire, as the right hand to my brother who was at the helm.

Instead I’d just spent fifteen minutes looking for the freaking door to this mammoth building, having to walk all the way around the block twice.

Who can’t find a door? Me, apparently.

After stuffing the wipes back into my oversized purse, I sipped the now cooled coffee where it had pooled after overflowing on the mouthpiece of the lid.

I pulled open the glass door to our suite and spotted my brother straight away. The office was hardly more than a large open room—complete with a concrete floor and exposed ductwork overhead. Cullen had told me it was nothing fancy, but this was bare bones.

“Did you find it okay?” my brother asked, glancing up from his laptop with a smile.

I shot a death glare his way.

He chuckled under his breath. “Sorry, I meant to tell you. It’s weird right now with the remodel going on. You have to enter where it says Billy’s Bagels and then go up one flight of stairs.” He waved his hand. “Never mind. You obviously figured it out. You’re here.”

Smith wasn’t here yet. At least I’d beat him here, and I could take a moment to get my bearings.

“I would give you a tour, but—” Cullen gestured to the office around us. “This is it. Copy room’s over there. Bathrooms are down the hall.”

The room was large, and one entire wall was windows that provided a view of a construction site below. It was basic, but had a certain charm to it.

In many ways, we were still functioning as a start-up company. We didn’t need anything fancy. When my brother took over a couple of years ago, the company was barely turning a profit, just enough for him to survive on. Now it was poised to do a couple million in sales this year—if we could get our inventory issues sorted out, and the big accounts came through on their promised orders. It was an exciting time for everyone.

“You’ll be right here. Between me and Smith.” Cullen gestured to a center desk wedged between two others.

They weren’t large or glamorous, but still they were nice—white Formica with chrome legs, and white leather swivel chairs. A gray rug cushioned the concrete floor beneath our feet, and a little steel trash can was tucked beneath each of the three desks. On top of each desk, a bright orange pencil holder sat next to a laptop computer. It felt organized and neat, and I liked that.

There was also a large work table under the windows on which sat piles of bras, camisoles, and books and books of fabric swatches.

“Thanks, Cullen. For believing in me.” I smiled as I lowered myself into my seat next to him.

“Of course, sis.” He returned my easy smile. “If you want to start by getting set up on our network, I e-mailed you the instructions.”

“Network?” I took another sip of my coffee.

“Yeah, so we all have access to shared files and company documents. And it gives you access to the fax machine and printer.” He tipped his head toward the back corner of the room, where a doorway led to a little copy room.

“Cool. I can’t wait to dig in and get to work.”

But just then my mojo was thrown off when Smith walked in, looking so strikingly sexy in his suit that I almost swallowed my tongue.

“Suit and tie . . . You didn’t need to bother,” Cullen said as Smith approached.

Cullen was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, just as he was most days. Come to think of it, I’d never really seen Smith out of his suit. He wore it like a knight wore his armor, almost as if it had the power to shield him from the world.

“Morning,” Smith rasped out in his husky morning voice, and my entire body took notice.

Shrugging off the strap of his laptop bag, he lowered himself into the seat next to mine. Close enough that I could smell his crisp masculine scent. This should have been the most exciting time of my adult life, but instead it was marred by the fact that I’d had a failed, awkward one-night stand with my brother’s bestie, his business partner, and my new coworker.

This was like some sick joke. How would I survive sitting a few feet away from Smith for nine hours a day? Fuck my life. If I could quit, I would.

Cullen and Smith launched into a conversation about fourth-quarter purchase orders and gross revenue projections that I mostly ignored while I tried not to hyperventilate.

I didn’t just need this job. I wanted it so badly, my chest ached. I wanted desperately to prove to my parents and my brother that I could handle the real world and not fuck it up. I was born into wealth and privilege— loved and cherished, educated at the best schools. Now was my chance to finally prove that I was more than my privileged upbringing would suggest. I was ready to contribute. To get this weight off my shoulders that all I’d done my entire life so far was take.

Focusing my attention on the instructions in my e-mail, I soon had my laptop configured to the network. I opened a folder containing the company graphics and logo that a graphic designer had recently finished for us. I planned to spend the day updating our social media accounts with our new look, and then reaching out to some media accounts in the hopes that we could get press coverage.

I opened a new e-mail and attached the logo—Sophia’s written in a pretty script font in a soft pink color overlaid on the transparent image of a lace bra—and typed out a brief message.

 

Maggie,

Check out our new logo. Super cute, right? Oh, and I’m sitting three feet from Smith. Can you say torture?

 

I typed in her name and clicked Enter, then Send. It was only after I hit Send that I noticed the e-mail address field said Mack, not Maggie.

“Um . . . who’s Mack Lively?” I asked, reading over the address in my sent box.

Cullen swallowed, turning toward me. “He’s the head of the regional department store chain out of Boston we’re hoping to land. Why?”

My stomach bottomed out, and the coffee I’d consumed might as well have been battery acid for how sick I suddenly felt.

“I accidentally sent him an e-mail meant for Maggie.”

“Shit, Evie. How did that happen?”

I released a slow exhale. The beginnings of a splitting headache set in. I’d been at work a mere thirty minutes and I’d already fucked up. I blamed Smith’s presence—he had me agitated, but it wasn’t like I could tell Cullen that.

“I started typing in M-A, and then I hit Enter. Maggie’s name normally auto-populates. I don’t even have this Mack person’s e-mail address. I don’t understand.”

Cullen swore under his breath, and Smith’s somber expression looked like he felt sorry for me.

“You’re connected to the network, Evie,” Cullen said. “You have access to all the clients and contacts now.” He released a sigh through his nose, his jaw tense.

“Right. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”

“What was in the e-mail?” Cullen asked, his expression darkening.

“Just our new logo . . . and some other stuff.” I looked down at my keyboard, my mood plummeting even further.

Smith cleared his throat. “It’s first-day nerves. A simple mistake that anyone could have made. I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about. Don’t sweat it, Evie.”

I released the breath I was holding.

Cullen nodded. “Don’t put too much pressure on yourself; it’s day one. You’ll learn the ropes soon enough.”

I tried to smile and took another sip of my coffee. At least he didn’t suspect that the hulking six-foot-something man beside us was the real reason for my nerves.

• • •

Somehow, I survived my first day. After my disastrous morning, I kept my head down and my eyes on my screen, speaking only in one-word responses to Smith and Cullen, afraid I would somehow out myself.

Smith’s playful mood from Paris had evaporated, and he’d spent the day brooding and despondent. I wasn’t cut out for this level of torture, which made me extremely thankful when I saw Maggie enter the bar after work.

“Thank God you’re here,” I mumbled, curling my fingers around the stem of my wineglass.

Maggie flashed me a gloomy frown. “Hey, sweetie. You’re going to need something stronger than that.” She tipped her chin toward my glass of merlot.

I shrugged. It didn’t matter. Alcohol wasn’t going to solve this.

I’d told Maggie the entire sordid tale when I got back from Paris. To her credit, she’d only laughed once at my ridiculous plan to break into Smith’s hotel room, and then winced when I told her how he’d pulled away and practically kicked me out as soon as he realized it was me. Since then, she’d offered sympathetic support and gentle encouragement.

Her stance? It was time to move on. And didn’t I know it. I just wished there was a way to erase the past. What I needed was a time machine.

“It was torturous. He’s sitting so close that I can smell his cologne. And he looks at me like he feels bad for me.”

Maggie nodded. “That’s exactly why I have the perfect new plan for you.”

“I’m all ears,” I said, then drained the last of my wine and signaled the bartender for another glass.

“The best way to get over someone is to get under someone else.”

Emboldened by the alcohol, we created a new plan—an online dating profile that Maggie typed up for me on my phone.

“Ms. Fifty Shades of Sexy seeks lovable Christian Grey type for cuddling, misadventure, and more.”

I snatched my phone back from her. “You can’t write that.”

She smiled like the cat who’d eaten the canary. “Oops. Too late.”

By the time we’d polished off a bottle of wine and eaten a few tacos apiece from a food truck out front, I felt immensely better. On the cab ride home, anything seemed possible.

Maybe I wouldn’t die a pathetic spinster with a cobwebbed vagina after all. I had a new plan, one that had nothing to do with Smith Hamilton. It didn’t matter that I’d been in love with him half my life . . . it was more than past time to move on.

My failed attempt at seducing him was like a flashing neon sign from God to move on. Smith who?

Tomorrow was a new day.