Page 15 of Sassy Love
I hold up a finger, the universal signal for ‘please wait,’ and spin the office chair around to grab my tote. Inside is a large bagof my new stationery. This office is drab at best, a little more color is just what’s needed.
I haul the bag from where I stuffed it after leaving the store and take my time setting up my desk. An aesthetic of hot pink, pale pink, and cream and gold, until my half of the desk looks like a working girl’s paradise with gold accents.
Rawlins raises a brow over those stupid fucking blue eyes and presses his lips together.
“Get your own. If I find you stealing my stuff, I’ll have your balls.”
He huffs through a laugh. “Pink’s not my color, Princess.”
Heat floods my neck and face.
I hate that nickname. I hate everything it represents, from the ridiculous patriarchal system it stemmed from to the last person who called me that.
My dad.
Before he left with the fucking milk.
I stand and my chair rolls back, hitting the sideboard my bag sits on. “Don’t call me that.” I lean forward, planting my fists on either side of my laptop. “Ever.”
He holds his hands up in surrender, those blue eyes a little wider as he studies my face. Like he cares. Like he can figure out the wounds and baggage that make up Carlie Lamont. Like hell he’s getting a chance to find the chinks in my armor.
“End of day, Rawlins. Or the only communication you’ll be receiving in your precious inbox will be from Serelle.” My tone is harsh, the volume raised with my harried blood rushing through my head.
He frowns at me now.
Huh, who would have thought he would be the teacher’s pet...
Oh yeah, that’s right, I did.
I pegged him right the first time, damn suck-up.
He flicks his gaze to the side, looking outside this glass box we’re in. Like Ken and Barbie in a two-for-one box.
Mortified, I find the entire staff frozen, staring through said glass walls at the two of us. We’re literally in a fishbowl. A square glass enclosure made to house the shelters’ most expensive acquisitions, which apparently isnotsoundproof.
“Shit,” I breathe, dropping back into my seat.
That’s all I need, an audience.
“You’ll have it in writing before lunch, and I expect a quick turnaround, Rawlins.”
“Fine.” He straightens his tie and leans over the desk, stealing a muffin from the basket and sipping the coffee that’s probably lukewarm by now. “How’d you know apple cinnamon’s my favorite?”
He smiles his hideous megawatt grin at me before taking a bite. His Adam’s apple bobs, and he swallows a mouthful of coffee to wash down the bite before tossing the muffin in the trash can by the door as he leans down, coffee in hand still.
With a click of my mouse, I flick the email to his inbox. And thewhooshsounds from my laptop fills the room.
“Much better, Lamont. Following orders already.”
Ass!
The balls on this guy.
I catch the smuggest smile stretching his face as he pushes through the glass door and weaves through the sea of desks, chatting and saying hi to people as he goes.
Goddamn brownnoser.
How is he the people person in this office? That’s always been my card, the strength that found me in PR in the first place.
