Page 30 of Hiss and Make Up
“Your friend should be able to find something in there.”
He glanced at the list and frowned. “You’d be surprised.”
“Send ‘em over to me with their resume. Some of these haven’t been posted yet.”
Marc nodded, his eyes still glued to the pointless list in his hands. Sierra would never agree to anything on there.
Back at his desk, Sierra was still reading emails. Marc flopped in his chair. He’d been up until after midnight, rushing to turn in his summary after the game went into overtime. After that, he couldn’t fall asleep, because all he could see was that snake, coiled and ready to strike at him. And what little sleep he did get could never have prepared him for this day.
More snakes.
More Sierra.
Sure, he could have let Sierra take that snake to Dale alone. He could have taken a nap. But no. He had to take her to lunch and next he would be sitting through an almost three-hour game with her. Why?
He watched her frown into her stack of papers, still unable to believe he was sitting next to Sierra. Sierra Menard.HisSierra.
Of course, she wasn’t exactly his anything anymore. Not that she ever was. But it had been nice to think of her that way. Especially after she left.
The idea of her disappearing again? He wasn’t ready to let that happen yet.
It was more than wanting to see her again. Sure, he could stare at her mouth and bare arms all day long. Even cranky and stubborn looked good on her. And he couldn’t ignore the heat he felt whenever she stood near him. The earthy, fresh scent of the woods still lingering over her skin.
Besides all that, a fresh pair of objective eyes might clue in on something he hadn't noticed before. Or tell him if he was overreacting.
She landed on a particularly long and detailed message threatening to harm every part of his body and the children he didn't have yet. Her eyes widened as she read on. He didn’t think anything could shock the smack-talking spitfire who used to hang upside down in trees with him.
"Hey, Marc! How's it going?"
The high-pitched whisper over the cubicle wall belonged to Chloe Guidry. She was a perky blonde with the annoying habit of popping in at exactly the wrong time, like a pesky little sister.
“Hey,” he said. “Chloe, this is Sierra. She’s helping me go through some notes for…um…for a potential story on her old college football team.”
Sierra raised an eyebrow, and Marc stared her down, willing her to go along with the story for now. It was easier than explaining the whole outrageous truth.
“Sierra, this is Chloe Guidry. She’s one of our special publications editors. Small world, actually. She and her family moved in at the end of our street not long after you and your dad moved out.”
“Fascinating.” She flashed Chloe a fake smile before dropping her head to resume her reading.
Marc nudged Sierra’s foot with his and squinted aNot coollook when she glanced at him. Sure, Chloe’s bubbly personality was a little over-the-top, but she didn’t deserve Sierra’s disdain. And Marc had enough people to protect. Keeping an eye on his mom and Denise and her kids was all he could handle. And now he had to keep an eye on Sierra since she was going to insist on involving herself in this mess. He didn't have time to be Chloe’s emotional protector too.
“Sorry,” he said to Chloe. “She’s not a morning person.”
Chloe looked confused. “Oh, it’s after two o’clock now.”
Sierra snorted, but kept her head down and continued to read. Ignoring the noise, Chloe straightened her back, raised her chin, and returned her pouty lip to its perma-smile position.
Marc glanced at the wall clock. “Wait, did you say two?”
Chloe nodded. “Just wanted to say, ‘Hi,’ so I’ll let you get back to work now. I know you have to be at the game soon. It was nice meeting you, Sierra.”
Sierra grunted and threw a hand up in a half-hearted wave, which Marc read as her polite way of saying,That’s nice, now piss off. It could have been worse.
He told Chloe goodbye, and she bounced off toward her desk. When he turned back to Sierra, he noticed her expression had morphed from amazement to confusion.
“Where did you live before you moved back home?”
“Metairie. I wrote for The Times-Picayune before dad got sick. Why?”
