Chapter One
I need this job. I need this job. I need this job.
Jen tapped her pen against her desk. Tap. Tap. Tap. Maybe the movement, combined with her internal chant, would subdue her urge to physically attack a colleague.
She looked up at the colleague in question: Oliver Hatton, AKA Ollie, AKA a pain in her damned backside. He gave her pen a significant look, then arched one blonde brow.
“You know what they say about that sort of thing,” he drawled.
She stared back dully, her mouth clamped stubbornly shut. Unfortunately, he didn’t require any encouragement.
“It’s a sign of frustration,” he continued, bending over her desk.
Yep.
“Of a… Certain kind.” He murmured. She had the distinct impression that he thought he was being seductive. “You know what I mean?”
“Certainly not,” Jen said. His face fell—but only for a moment. As usual, he recovered quickly. Ollie possessed a level of self-confidence that would be admirable in anyone other than the office sleaze. As he mounted his next line of attack, Jen gave up on the notes she’d been writing and turned to her computer.
“What are you up to after work?” Ollie asked.
“Not a lot.”
“I’m going out for a drink with the lads.” He winked. She had no idea why. “Of course, there’s always room for a female or two…”
“Mmmm.” She pinned a vague smile on her face as she pulled up her emails and hit ‘Compose’.
Re: UGH!
Pri,
Copy is going well but I’m being slimed all over by wannabe Johnny Bravo. Again. Currently plotting ways to make my feelings clearer. I may come in tomorrow with NOT INTERESTED written on my forehead. Or possibly FUCK YOU.
I’m thinking red sharpie, to make an impact. Do you think that’s too much?
Let me know,
Jen
“You should come,” Ollie was saying.
“Oh, no thanks.” She’d forgotten to add a recipient. Of course. Only half-listening to Ollie’s wheedling, she began scrolling through the company list.
“You never join us for drinks. Come on, Jenny, live a little.“
“Don’t call me that,” she said automatically. C for Chaudry. There we go. She hit Send.
“Why not?” Ollie leaned closer and—oh, sweet baby Jesus in a manger. The slimy pink curl of his tongue flicked out from between his paper-cut lips, like a worm after a spring shower. Jen watched in horror as he slid his gaze from her face to her cleavage, then back again. “You know, Jen—“
But, happily, he never managed to finish that sentence. Priyanka appeared in the doorway of her office and bellowed “Oliver!”
Priyanka did not have an inside voice.
“Priyanka!” Ollie straightened, putting a blessed few feet of distance between his mouth and Jen’s face. Thank God. His breath was almost as offensive as his personality.
“Get me the numbers on that latest account, will you?” Pri was tiny—she couldn’t be more than five feet tall—but her authority was as mighty as her foghorn voice. Ollie cleared his throat and adjusted his suit cuffs.
“Of course, Priyanka. Right away.”
“Off you go, then.”
He cast one last, lingering look at Jen before hurrying off across the room to his own, smaller office, skirting desks as he went. How a man like Ollie Hatton had ended up a junior exec with his own office, while Jen toiled away with nothing but a desk to call her own, she had no idea.
Wait—yes she did. Life wasn’t fair.
What else was new?
Priyanka rolled her eyes at Ollie’s retreating back before scurrying over to Jen’s desk, hefting a pile of paperwork in her arms.
“Thanks, Pri.”
“No problem, darling.”
“Seriously, five more minutes and I might have lost it. Thank God you got my email.”
Priyanka laughed, flicking her long, greying ponytail over one cardigan-clad shoulder. “No you wouldn’t; you’re a good girl. But I don’t have any emails from you, Jennifer. I just came to dump this on you.” She smirked and slammed the stack of files down on Jen’s desk. “You’re welcome.”
“Oh.” Jen grimaced. “Is it too late to take back my thanks?”
“Far too late,” Pri replied, already heading back to the comfort of her corner office. “I will take my credit, Jen. You know that.”
Jennifer heaved out a sigh as she eyed the mountain of work. She even grumbled under her breath a little bit, but her heart wasn’t in it. Becoming friends with one’s manager made it difficult to stay resentful.
Not to mention the fact that, when it came down to it, she was beyond grateful to have this job at all—sleazy junior execs aside.
Resigned to an afternoon of dreary admin, Jen picked up her pen and slouched down in her chair. There was a big old potted plant right by her desk, and if she kept her head down, she’d be almost invisible from certain angles. Maybe, if Ollie ventured out again, he’d think she’d gone to lunch.
But as she opened the first file, something nagged at her mind. A vague sense of worry, one she couldn’t quite catch. It nudged her back to her computer screen. She tapped her mouse, brought the monitor to life, and saw a new message in her inbox.
From: Chamberlain, J. T.
Re: UGH!
Wait. What?
Dread settling in her stomach, Jen clicked over to her ‘Sent’ box and scanned the emails anxiously. No. No, no, no, no, no.
There was no way she’d just sent that email to Chamberlain instead of Chaudry. No way. Because, while Chamberlain and Chaudry may both begin with ‘Ch’, there were several key differences between them.
For example, Chaudry was the name of her friend and manager. Chamberlain was not.
Chaudry was the name of a woman who understood exactly how annoying men in the workplace could be, and was therefore a safe haven for anti-Ollie rants. Chamberlain was not.
But most importantly—Jennifer stuck her pen between her lips and chewed, good intentions be damned—most importantly…
Chaudry was not the name of a partner at the advertising firm where she worked.
And Chamberlain was.
Jen’s biro burst between her teeth, leaking bitter ink. With a stifled cry, she spat it out and swiped clumsily at her mouth like a child. Jesus Christ. Grabbing her water, she sucked up a mouthful, swilled, and spat it back into the bottle. Then she looked furtively around to see if that utterly tragic display had been witnessed.
Paige, two desks down, was staring at her in open astonishment.
Crap.
Jennifer cleared her throat, straightened up in her seat, and turned pointedly back to her computer. Mentally, she steeled herself. Then, her heart in her throat, she opened the Email of Doom.
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