Page 3 of Her Juicy Cherry (Sweet Treats 2)

“Oh um, Courtney was just telling me how to work the light switches at Praxel Puffin,” she blabs thoughtlessly.

I roll my eyes. What a terrible liar. Who needs help learning how to flick a light switch?

But I turn to Mr. Farmer with my best smile and sit up straight.

“Mr. Farmer, we were just discussing the new model of cardboard box currently in development at Praxel Puffin,” I say with a bright smile. “You know, the kind that’s sustainable, and that’s going to be made of recyclable composted materials, and not require any packing tape or bubble wrap. Kara and I are totally into that!” I sing with enthusiasm.

Mr. Farmer stares at me while wiping at his forehead again.

“I didn’t know we had anything like that in development,” he says slowly.

“Yeah, and how do you make a cardboard box from compost?” chirps Kara from her cubicle. “That sounds impossible!”

Why oh why does our intern have to have her one smart moment all summer right now? Can’t she just keep quiet?

I smile wanly.

“There are incredible improvements in technology, Kara. I’ll show you some of the research I’ve done later today. You can make anything with compost now, from space suits to re-usable toilet paper.”

Her eyes grow wide.

“Re-usable toilet paper?” she asks in a breathy voice. “OMG that sounds gross, but of course. It makes total sense. You’re so smart, Courtney.”

I bite back my grin because nothing about this makes sense, but at that moment, my computer screen flickers to life and my inbox pops up on the screen. There’s a list of all my emails and their subject lines, and a new one is highlighted in bold. The email is titled, “Show me your back door pucker baby” and it’s from Bert Halliwell. Oh shit.

I know Mr. Farmer’s seen the illicit subject line because if anything, he starts sweating even more. His beady little eyes seem to bug out of his head, and his face, which was already florid, turns a deep shade of violet.

“Courtney,” he says in a slow tone. “Is that company email you’re using?”

I swivel in my chair to stare at the screen and feign shock.

“Well, no. Well, maybe, yes. I suppose. I know I’m not supposed to use company email for personal purposes, but this is just spam,” I say quickly, inventing on the fly. “I have no idea how in the world this email appeared in my inbox,” I say while futilely trying to send it to Trash. “You know spammers these days. They get your email address, and then you can never escape them. There’s so much garbage circulating all the time.”

But just as I manage to delete the illicit email, a second email pops into my inbox, and this one has an even naughtier title than the first. The subject line reads, “Courtney, I’m going to eat your back pucker tonight.” Again, the sender is Bert Halliwell.

As before, I try to delete it with furious clicking, but Mr. Farmer is standing right behind me and can see everything.

“It’s just spam,” I babble. “I have no idea why these assholes are targeting me, or how they even found out my name. Bots can do anything though, that’s what I’ve heard. Plus, you can tell it’s spam because look at the sender’s name: Bert Halliwell. That’s a spammer’s name if I ever heard one. He might as well just sign it, Your Sweet Nigerian Prince. Hardy har har!”

But I can tell that for the first time in three years, Mr. Farmer isn’t buying it. He’s not going to take this crap anymore, not after all my antics and my refusal to do any work. He stares at me, a trickle of sweat running down his temple.

“Courtney,” he says in a low voice. “I think it’s best if you pack up your desk and leave.”

A gasp sounds out behind us, and I turn to see that Kara’s fallen out of her chair again into a messy heap on the floor. What the hell? What is that girl’s problem? Can’t she just mind her own business? The blonde hastily pulls herself off the ground and re-seats herself, and I turn back to my boss.

“Mr. Farmer, I can explain,” I begin in a firm voice. “This is a misunderstanding.”

But I’m cut off.

“No Courtney. This is it. You don’t belong at Praxel Puffin. You’ve never been interested in cardboard boxes, and you’ve made no effort to immerse yourself in our business for years now.”

“That’s not true!” I protest. But I’m cut off again.

“No, Courtney. It is. We’ve been watching your computer, and we know that you’ve been surfing the web aimlessly for eight hours a day. You’ve been purchasing thousands of dollars of god knows what, and you also read news and chat remotely with your friends. Now, you’re getting these … these … dirty emails from god knows whom, and you’re doing it in front of an intern too. Time’s up, Courtney.”

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