I rarely blush, but I can feel heat work its way from the placket of my white blouse to my neck. I place a hand to my cheek and press my lips together. All of my fellow co-workers’ eyes are on me.
“Oh?” It’s the only word I’m capable of at the moment.
“Dating in Summer. Summer Fling. Fling into Summer.” She makes a “help me out” motion with her hand, and our writing staff begins scrawling furiously on their notepads in an attempt to come up with an idea she might like.
Carla’s suggestion of “Sex in the Summer” quiets the entire boardroom.
“That. I like.” Mia sends me a saucy wink, and I bristle. “Sadly, we can’t pimp out poor Catarina.”
“Your Sexiest Summer Ever,” Adam blurts.
“Yes, but no,” Mia says. “Catarina isn’t being assigned a self-improvement article. She’s going to date a bad boy and tell our readership about it. In detail.”
I make a choking noise and force out a laugh. “Mia, with all due respect to my boyfriend, North isn’t exactly a bad boy.”
What an exaggeration. Northrop Phillips, III, is as far from a bad boy as you can get. He’s a country club guy who loves golf and finance in equal measures. He’s the perfect pick for a partner, and that’s why I picked him. One hundred percent in everything, remember?
“Not North, Catarina. I’ve scouted a bad boy especially for this occasion.” The gasps around the table suck the oxygen from the room.
“I thought you weren’t pimping me out,” I reply carefully.
“You don’t have to have a physical relationship with the guy.” Mia leafs through her papers again. “But you do have to pretend date him and write about it. We want our readership living vicariously through you. Think of it as an acting role.”
I blink at her. A heads-up that she wants me to “pretend” date someone before our staff meeting would’ve been nice. Then again she knows I’d have said no.
“Your cohort will be writing from his own POV on what it’s like to be the bad boy now committed to dating. It’s a dash of fiction, a dash of romance, and a dash of what you’re best at writing: relationships.”
“Who is it?” Nanci asks, excitement rounding her blue eyes. I’m not there yet. I’m still in shock.
“Me,” a rough voice announces from the doorway behind me.
I turn my head to look over my shoulder, stunned further into silence by the sheer attractiveness of the man standing there. He’s so good-looking it’s criminal. But then, he is—
“Barrett Fox!” Nanci says and then bursts into a series of nervous giggles.
“In the flesh.” He bends at the waist to place a kiss on Mia’s temple. “Sorry I’m late.”
“I’d expect no less,” Mia says with a smile that—yeah, is a little gooey. She bats her unmascaraed lashes while she’s at it.
Who knew my boss had a sexual bone in her body? I thought she was made of steel beams and asbestos.
Everyone at the conference room table, save me, stands as one and moves to Barrett Fox like he has his own orbit. Mia shushes the chatter around us.
“Okay, all right. Now that you all have your assignments, let’s leave Barrett and Catarina to theirs.” She makes a shooing motion, and everyone shuffles reluctantly out the door.
I slide a derisive glance to my new “co-worker” and wonder what I did to Mia to make her stick me with this assignment. Except I know exactly why she did it. My boss’s work ethic can be described in two words: bottom line. She knows a prime opportunity to bring money to this paper when she sees it.
She flips to another sheet in her yellow pad before ripping it out and laying it in front of me.
“I’ll let you hash out the details.” Before she shuts the door, she adds, “Barrett. You know where to find me.”
“Sure do, doll.” He winks, then takes her chair at the head of the table, going as far as leaning back and kicking up his feet on the table.
I recoil from the blatant rudeness of that move, but I shouldn’t be surprised. Barrett Fox is known for his rude antics, and this one is tame by comparison. Unlike the photos of him I’ve seen online: sweaty, streaked in dirt, or even dressed in a suit making lewd gestures at the camera.
There’s no way to escape the popularity of the local OSU football player who went pro, especially in Columbus. This paper was built on a foundation made of footballs.
He wears a crisp, white shirt tucked into dark pants, black leather shoes, and because he kicked his feet up and crossed them at the ankles, I also notice a pair of red socks with white polka dots.
“What’s your name, gorgeous?”
I reroute my gaze to his face. Sharp, angular, a deep dent in his chin. His eyelids are narrowed in assessment, but I know under those red-brown eyelashes his irises are so blue they border on turquoise.
Nanci had a calendar of him last year. I’ve seen this guy in every pose from decked out in full gear to shirtless, to the one where he’s lying on a beach, his shorts pulled down past his ass crack.
He’s long and lean, and I might have had a passing appreciation for how attractive he is if I didn’t know so much about him.
“What if I called you Ginger? Would that upset you?” I ask tartly, referring to the perfectly coiffed reddish hair on top of his head. He’s good with gel or has his own stylist. Or maybe he’s sleeping with a stylist.
He grins at my question—straight white teeth he didn’t lose any of playing ball for eight years—and laces his hands behind his head. His shirtsleeves are uncuffed and rolled to the elbows, the scruff on his face two days past clean-shaven.
“Apologies, beautiful, but you know my name. I don’t know yours.”
“You mean Mia didn’t tell you my name when she threw me to the wolves?” I have a momentary fantasy where I talk her into reassigning this puff piece to Nanci, but she won’t. Nanci mostly helps out with articles. She hasn’t honed her journalistic skills well enough to be entrusted with a column.
When ad dollars are involved, Mia’s focus is ensuring a climb in readership. Not to brag, but that’s the reason I’m in charge of the relationships section. I’m good. Not because of some magic fairy dust but because I work my ass off.
Still, it would have been nice to write a commentary about how to date a real man instead of this one. A man who knows how to properly wear a button-down shirt, for example. Like North.
“Ouch. I’m guessing you’re not a fan?”
“Of you? I barely know who you are, Mr. Fox.”
“You seem to know plenty. I can read it in the pleat between those two perfect eyebrows.” He runs those blue eyes over my face, down my blouse, and lingers at my breasts.
I lift the paper Mia left behind in front of my chest to avoid further scrutiny.
“Catarina Everhart,” I say as I read over the sheet of paper in my hand. Mia’s shorthand is atrocious but after five years of practice, I can read her hieroglyphics without any problem.
“Do you go by Cat?”
“No. I don’t. Do you go by Bare?”
“Sometimes.” He shrugs, lowers his feet to the floor, and leans over the table. He flicks the back of the paper I’m using as a shield.