Page 52 of An Inevitable Marriage
“Just ask the redhead who left my bed this morning. She was thoroughly satisfied…many times over.”
“I’m sure she was,” I deadpanned. “I, however, am not. I need to know why Sno…uh…Everlee’s company let her go.”
Tristan’s voice turned serious. “Why? Did something happen?”
“No, it’s nothing like that. The woman seems to believe I had something to do with her getting fired.”
“What?” Tristan barked out a laugh. “How?”
“Fuck if I know.”
“All right, I’ll make a few calls. I just—”
My office door flew open, cutting Tristan off.
“This is all shit,” the man in my doorway yelled. He took one look around and then marched himself straight to my desk.
Behind him, Tamara mouthed the word “Sorry” before she hurried away.
Tristan was still talking. Snatching my phone, I turned the speakerphone off and pressed it against my ear.
“Listen, man,” I interrupted. “I gotta go.”
He chuckled. “Just wanted to check that you were still breathing after your vanishing act. Oh, and, uh, are we still doing poker night now that you’re old and married?”
I barely resisted the urge to roll my eyes. “We’re still on for poker. But don’t use the spare key. I don’t live alone anymore.”
With that, I ended the call. The line was barely dead when Francisco, the Brazilian photographer in charge of the new line’s advertisement, tossed a heap of photos on my desk.
“It’s all shit,” he said again. Slumping down into the chair in front of me like his last breath just left his body, he let out a long-winded groan. “How am I supposed to work withthat?”
I gathered the images and slowly flicked through them. The women in them were all gorgeous and would be great in any ad campaign. “What seems to be the problem?”
“There is no life, no soul,” the Brazilian complained. “The camera is looking at them, but they aren’t looking back.”
I scanned the photos again. He wasn’t wrong. These women didn’t give off the feeling I wanted to evoke with the new line. There was no passion.
“I’ll contact a different modeling agency,” I told him.
Narrowing his eyes, he swept his long hair out of his face. “I don’t want sticks.” When I just blinked, he sighed dramatically. “A woman, a true woman, has curves”—he made an hourglass figure with his hands—“a smile that comes from the heart, and a beauty no man can deny. You don’t want to just sleep with her, you want to laugh with her, sit with her. Just be with her.”
Again, he was right. That was exactly what I had in mind. But where did we find such a woman?
“I hear what you’re saying,” Leaning back, I smoothed a palm over my tie. “You’ll have new models to work with before the end of the day.”
He pushed to his feet and poked his forefinger at me. “No sticks.”
“There won’t be a stick in sight.”
Apparently, that was good enough. Without uttering another word, the man spun around and left my office in a much calmer way than he’d entered. I waited until the door clicked shut before I threw my head back and scrubbed my hand over my face.
It wasn’t even nine yet. Surely the day could only get better from here.
I should have known not to tempt Murphy. The day hadn’t gone better; and by the time I walked through my front door just after ten that night, I was ready to collapse.
And as horrid as days like this were, I welcomed them, too.
Because a tired mind couldn’t run rampant.
