Page 17 of A Fool's Game

“Then why don’t you just give me the paper I need to record my hours so you can sign off on them, and I can leave you to all of your important work.”

We stay locked in a heated glare, neither of us willing to be the first to look away.

Finally, he sits back down in his chair with a huff and opens a desk drawer producing a red folder filled with the exact forms I came in here to get. He tosses one across the desk, and I snatch it up, stealing a pen from the cup and jotting down the date, time in and time out. I pass it back to him, and he initials it.

“Don’t lose it. This is the only record of your time here,” he says, handing the sheet back to me.

“You’re not going to keep it in that folder with the rest of them?”

He shrugs. “I could if that’s what you prefer. It would be a shame, though, if it went missing and you lost all your hard-earned community service hours and had to start over.”

I take the sheet from his hand and fold it neatly into quarters. “I can hold onto it.”

He turns back to his schedule without another word, and I take that as dismissal.

As I’m passing through the busy prep kitchen on my way to the swinging exit door, however, he comes out of his office to shout after me over the din of voices.

“Better be on time tomorrow, rich boy.”

I turn, all eyes on me. “Sure thing, Swift.”

The room full of cooks erupts into shouts of laughter at my joke and Taylor seethes as they taunt him.

“New nickname, boss.”

“You’d look hot in sequins.”

I can feel the heat of his glare all the way across the room. “You’re going to regret that.”

I just back toward the door, brushing my shoulders off to the tune of Shake It Off as the cooks continue to laugh.

When I’m safely on the other side, my energy collapses.I know it was a stupid move to poke the bear like that, especially when that bear holds my future in his hands, but I just couldn’t help myself.

Maybe he’s right, and I will regret my words. But for now, the only thing on my mind is my bed.

Chapter 7

Gemma

I’m working from home again today, perched at the dining room table where I have a clear view of the mailbox through a tall, rectangular window next to the front door.

Barking from the building next door catches my attention, and I look up just in time to see the blue clad mailman cross through my window view and stop at our box.

I leap up so fast my wool-socked feet nearly slip on the hardwood floor, skidding down the hallway and waiting silently, hand on the doorknob, until I think enough seconds have passed before running out into the wet world.

The mailman, who’s had similar interactions with me for weeks, glances back from down the block and waves. I wave back, ripping open the little door and peering inside.Even with all my waiting and wishing, I don’t think I ever actually believed the news would be delivered in a letter.

And yet here it is.

I walk back up the steps to the house, socks damp and cold,staring at the print on the front of the otherwise plain white envelope.

Magnus Publishing.

My first choice.

The publishing house that has turned out voices that changed my life. From Sarah Farrow to Christina McMasters, every author and poet I’ve ever aspired to meet in real life is housed under the umbrella of Magnus.

I applied for their highly competitive internship program on a bit of a lark. Sure, my professor told me I had a shot, but with only two slots opening per year and thousands of eager applicants, odds were low they would even look at someone like me, a poetry major living all the way across the country.

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