Cullen was dressed in jeans and a T-shirt, just as he was most days. Come to think of it, I’d never really seen Smith out of his suit. He wore it like a knight wore his armor, almost as if it had the power to shield him from the world.
“Morning,” Smith rasped out in his husky morning voice, and my entire body took notice.
Shrugging off the strap of his laptop bag, he lowered himself into the seat next to mine. Close enough that I could smell his crisp masculine scent. This should have been the most exciting time of my adult life, but instead it was marred by the fact that I’d had a failed, awkward one-night stand with my brother’s bestie, his business partner, and my new coworker.
This was like some sick joke. How would I survive sitting a few feet away from Smith for nine hours a day? Fuck my life. If I could quit, I would.
Cullen and Smith launched into a conversation about fourth-quarter purchase orders and gross revenue projections that I mostly ignored while I tried not to hyperventilate.
I didn’t just need this job. I wanted it so badly, my chest ached. I wanted desperately to prove to my parents and my brother that I could handle the real world and not fuck it up. I was born into wealth and privilege— loved and cherished, educated at the best schools. Now was my chance to finally prove that I was more than my privileged upbringing would suggest. I was ready to contribute. To get this weight off my shoulders that all I’d done my entire life so far was take.
Focusing my attention on the instructions in my e-mail, I soon had my laptop configured to the network. I opened a folder containing the company graphics and logo that a graphic designer had recently finished for us. I planned to spend the day updating our social media accounts with our new look, and then reaching out to some media accounts in the hopes that we could get press coverage.
I opened a new e-mail and attached the logo—Sophia’s written in a pretty script font in a soft pink color overlaid on the transparent image of a lace bra—and typed out a brief message.
Maggie,
Check out our new logo. Super cute, right? Oh, and I’m sitting three feet from Smith. Can you say torture?
I typed in her name and clicked ENTER, then SEND. It was only after I hit SEND that I noticed the e-mail address field said Mack, not Maggie.
“Um . . . who’s Mack Lively?” I asked, reading over the address in my sent box.
Cullen swallowed, turning toward me. “He’s the head of the regional department store chain out of Boston we’re hoping to land. Why?”
My stomach bottomed out, and the coffee I’d consumed might as well have been battery acid for how sick I suddenly felt.
“I accidentally sent him an e-mail meant for Maggie.”
“Shit, Evie. How did that happen?”
I released a slow exhale. The beginnings of a splitting headache set in. I’d been at work a mere thirty minutes and I’d already fucked up. I blamed Smith’s presence—he had me agitated, but it wasn’t like I could tell Cullen that.
“I started typing in M-A, and then I hit ENTER. Maggie’s name normally auto-populates. I don’t even have this Mack person’s e-mail address. I don’t understand.”
Cullen swore under his breath, and Smith’s somber expression looked like he felt sorry for me.
“You’re connected to the network, Evie,” Cullen said. “You have access to all the clients and contacts now.” He released a sigh through his nose, his jaw tense.
“Right. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”
“What was in the e-mail?” Cullen asked, his expression darkening.
“Just our new logo . . . and some other stuff.” I looked down at my keyboard, my mood plummeting even further.
Smith cleared his throat. “It’s first-day nerves. A simple mistake that anyone could have made. I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about. Don’t sweat it, Evie.”
I released the breath I was holding.
Cullen nodded. “Don’t put too much pressure on yourself; it’s day one. You’ll learn the ropes soon enough.”
I tried to smile and took another sip of my coffee. At least he didn’t suspect that the hulking six-foot-something man beside us was the real reason for my nerves.
? ? ?
Somehow, I survived my first day. After my disastrous morning, I kept my head down and my eyes on my screen, speaking only in one-word responses to Smith and Cullen, afraid I would somehow out myself.
Smith’s playful mood from Paris had evaporated, and he’d spent the day brooding and despondent. I wasn’t cut out for this level of torture, which made me extremely thankful when I saw Maggie enter the bar after work.
“Thank God you’re here,” I mumbled, curling my fingers around the stem of my wineglass.
Maggie flashed me a gloomy frown. “Hey, sweetie. You’re going to need something stronger than that.” She tipped her chin toward my glass of merlot.