Game Changer

by Stewart, Sylvie

  Part of me is relieved and the rest of me panics. I’m so not ready.

  Reading my mind, Naveed leans in and stills. “You’ve got this, ringer.” He waits until I nod and then backs up toward the door. “I’ll check in on you between meetings tomorrow. And, don’t forget to dress to kill.” A quick wink and he’s gone.

  I don’t know what to do with myself now that he’s left and the reality of the situation is bearing down on me. So I take a breath and think about what Cookie would do.

  Then I swipe up my purse and head out shopping.

  * * *

  Jonathan Abernathy is not what I expected. From his haughtiness and his bored attitude on the phone, I expected a bespectacled millennial with an intimate knowledge of both hair product and esoteric barbs. So when the chubby forty-something man in running shoes and a beige sweater vest opens the studio door, I’m a bit taken aback.

  “Ms. James, I presume?” He doesn’t wait for me to respond before stepping aside and continuing in a bland tone. “Come in. He’s waiting for you.”

  I glance at my phone and see that, yes, I’m ten minutes early. But he’s waiting for me? Eeek. Cue sweat glands. So much for my carefully-applied makeup and killer sangria lipstick.

  “Thank you,” I croak as I follow him through the makeshift entry, my purse perched on my shoulder in a death grip.

  Jonathan trudges ahead of me, motioning unenthusiastically to each side as we walk. “Offices are that way. Retail studio is down there.” The space has even more partitions than I realized, creating a series of makeshift hallways and work areas.

  I scurry in my four-inch ankle-strap sandals to keep up with him. My outfit met Naveed’s approval when he checked me out earlier at the office, so I know I have that going for me. I’m decked out in a silver lace pencil skirt and a rose-pink capped-sleeve blouse with a floppy bow at the neck—something I carefully planned due to my tendency to heat to my core around my interviewee. No more suit jackets for me. The shoes were a splurge, but they were the most comfortable ones I could find and the bow in back makes me happy.

  I smooth a hand over my hair to make sure my updo is secure as we pass by a wide heavy-looking door.

  “That’s the forge. Don’t go in there.” Jonathan spares me a quick backward glare before continuing ahead of me and finally pausing at the opening to a huge open space with a lower ceiling. I recognize it as the room where I caught my first glimpse of Angus McKinley less than two weeks ago. My throat dries and all I can do is offer Jonathan an unsteady nod.

  I’m about to approach a man who, not forty-eight hours ago, got a good glimpse of my dirty romance books and heard me yammer on about my right to date a giant sweaty blacksmith. Odds are there aren’t too many of those in town. But I need to shove that shit down deep if I’m ever gonna to make it through the next hour. I’m counting on New York Poppy and the bitch better not let me down. I straighten my spine, smooth down my skirt and prepare to kick this interview’s ass.

  Without another word, Jonathan retreats and I take a deep breath as I enter the room, infusing each step with forced confidence.

  What I’m not quite prepared for when I glance around, however, is the sight of Angus McKinley and his hot bod in exactly the clothes Naveed described when he was screwing with me in our mock interview. Tight white t-shirt, ripped jeans that hug his hips like he was born wearing them, and rips that sure as hell didn’t come from anything but the way God intended—through physical motion and good-old-fashioned friction.

  Is it hot in here?

  He’s wheeling a shop table against the wall and his back is to me, which is just as well since I realize I’ve halted in my stride. I pick it up again and he turns at the click of my heels against the sealed concrete floor. I raise my chin to focus on his right ear as I approach.

  No matter what Naveed said, I just can’t meet his eyes. I’m too afraid of what I’ll see in them. The possibilities are limitless: boredom, impatience, scrutiny, amusement (at my expense, of course)—I’m not sure which one would be the worst. So the ear it is. But it’s a mistake too because I catch a glimpse of that tattoo curling behind the pink shell of his ear and dipping below the neckline of his shirt. And now I’m looking at his shoulder and the way the fabric strains.

  Crap. Get yourself together, Poppy.

  I force a cordial smile. “It’s lovely to see you again, Mr. McKinley.” I extend my hand. “Thank you for taking the time to meet with me.”

  But he doesn’t shake my hand. Instead, he rakes his eyes over me and grunts one single word: “No.”

  I blink, sure I’ve misheard him. Despite my plan for self-preservation, my eyes fly to his. What stares back at me is worse than any of the things I could have anticipated.

  Ice.

  His eyes are ice cold. And there is none of the usual intensity there, whether it be rage or interest. It’s like a fire has gone out and I feel an actual shiver run down my spine.

  “I’m sorry?”

  He shakes his head once, making the dark mess of hair on top move and I can feel his voice scratch at my skin. “This is a mistake.”

  “I… don’t understand, Mr. McKinley.”

  But he’s already turned his back and returned his attention to the table like I’m no longer in the room. I glance around for any sign of Jonathan, which is how I know I’m truly desperate, but he’s nowhere to be seen.

  I watch Angus McKinley’s back for a few more seconds before something in my gut starts to heat up and the coldness that had washed over me begins to clear. But it’s not embarrassment or warm fuzzies or the heat from the forge we passed by. It’s hot molten anger.

  I force the words out through a tight jaw. “Excuse me, but I was told you were expecting me for an interview.”

  He acts like he didn’t hear me.

  I don’t think so!

  “In fact, I was under the distinct impression it was you who requested me in particular, so I don’t see what the issue is.”

  My voice is firm and my accent is spot on. Iris would give me a gold frickin’ star.

  At that, he finally turns to face me again and I have to force myself from swallowing my tongue at the look on his face. He’s a coiled spring.

  His eyes rake me again from head to toe, but it’s not sexual or suggestive in the least. It’s as dispassionate as a farmer assessing a cow at auction—or probably more so. “I didn’t ask for… you.”

  Ouch.

  I feel like he just punched me in the gut and stole the breath from my lungs.

  But he’s not done yet. “Like I said, this is a mistake.” He reiterates his point before turning again in beast-speak for “you’re dismissed.”

  A mistake? A mistake?

  I do not think so. I can feel the heat of my anger rise up from my gut and populate every cell in my body, starting with my lungs and shooting out to the tips of my fingers and the ends of my neatly piled hair. I busted my balls rehearsing for this stupid interview. I tossed and turned all night worrying I’d forget something or deliver less-than perfect questions. Not to mention the $250 I dropped on this ridiculous outfit and these stupid freaking heels, and it’s a mistake?

  I’ll show him a mistake.

  … But I can’t.

  I draw in a deep breath and pray for calm. This isn’t about my pride or my schedule or my hurt feelings. This is about the magazine. This is exactly why I need New York Poppy—to save me from myself and the impression I’ll make if I don’t watch my step. I release the breath in a long slow stream and try visualizing puppies.

  “I’m sorry.” I want to choke on the words, but I push on. “I’m not familiar with the usual parameters in conducting an interview with… a creative mind such as yours.”

  Read: batshit crazy asshole.

  “If you require certain accommodations—say, a bowl full of purple M&Ms or the blood of a virgin…” Shit. I didn’t mean to say that last part out loud. I hurry on, “I’m sure we can reschedule with another individual from the
magazine with whom you’d be more comfortable.”

  There. I ended it on a more professional note and even used proper grammar. Now I’m getting the hell out of dodge and away from this entitled douchebag. Naveed can sort things out from here.

  I turn on my heel to leave and get about five feet before his voice stops me. “They don’t make purple M&Ms.”

  Out of everything I said, this is what he latches onto? I mouth a few expletives into the air before pasting a fake-ass smile on my face and turning once again. This time I choose to focus on a spot on the wall behind him.

  “Indeed. The choice of color is entirely up to you.” Damn, New York Poppy is throwing down.

  He takes a step closer and I resist the urge to back up. I’ll eat my hat before I’ll let him think he can intimidate me. Almost as if he’s reading my mind he narrows the gap by a few more feet. Even out of the corner of my eye, I can make out the individual whiskers on his jaw as he opens his mouth to speak again.

  “I’m more partial to… cherry pie.”

  Nine

  “No need to put up with anybody’s bull when you got the pointy end of a boot in your favor.”

  – Cookie Rutledge

  My eyes fly to his and I gasp before I can tamp it down. All traces of cold have been consumed by a volcano waiting to erupt behind his eyes.

  Did he just…?

  But then right at the edges I see something else—something that neutralizes any power his hot gaze could wield. It’s the amusement I was so afraid of in the first place.

  I clench my teeth and form my hands into fists where they rest along my hips.

  He's toying with me. There may not be hidden cameras or his model girlfriend hanging out around the corner laughing at me, but this man is clearly toying with me.

  But I'm no plaything, that's for damn certain. I may have embarrassed myself in front of him, but I came here today as a professional with a job to do and he just wasted my time and money—not to mention my pride. It’s like I’m back to square one here in New York. I’m nothing but a young country bumpkin undeserving of respect and credit for my contributions.

  I think we're done here.

  “Good day, Mr. McKinley,” I hiss out through my teeth and turn to go, just like Scarlett O’Hara would.

  He puts a staying hand on my elbow and his callused fingers all but burn my bare skin. I yank out of his grip even though it’s not restraining in the least—my instincts protecting me from the waves of energy this man exudes.

  “Wait.” The rumble is back.

  I whip my head around and will ice into my voice. “You've had your fun at my expense. And it's been great, really, but if you don't mind I have a job to get back to.” And a bus to jump in front of, but that part goes without saying.

  My strides are sure and strong, but I refuse to run. He doesn’t get one more piece of me. As soon as I pass back through the threshold, though, I pick up my pace. Tears threaten but I won’t shed them here. Unfortunately, they do a number on my vision because I take a wrong turn and need to backtrack to find the entryway again.

  “No, no, no,” I chant to myself while my heels click against the floor, my steps getting shorter. I blink back the tears and, thank God, they obey.

  The industrial lights flicker above as I turn down what I’m finally sure is the right way, but the space is blocked by none other than the hulking blacksmith with his tangle of black hair and that damn t-shirt and jeans.

  Just as I decide in favor of the pepper spray over my new shoes as weapons in my forthcoming assault on the man, he brings both hands in front of his chest in surrender.

  “Please, Ms. James. I didn’t…” He stops talking like he’s done.

  I swear this man has yet to speak a complete sentence.

  But I’ve got enough words for both of us.

  “You didn’t what, Mr. McKinley? You didn’t learn the manners God gave to a dog? Now, if you don’t step aside you might just find yourself on the learning end of a lesson you’re not likely to forget anytime soon.” Lord, I wish I had my boots so I could kick one where the sun don’t shine. Instead I grind the spiked heel of my right shoe into the floor so he knows I mean business.

  I figure I’ve made my point when both his eyebrows reach for his hairline and his full bottom lip drops a fraction in surprise. It seems I’ve accomplished the impossible and conjured an expression other than brooding dragon beast of the city. Well, what do you know?

  It isn’t until I’ve stalked past him and gulped in the humid city air on the streets that I realize I didn’t check my accent back there in that hallway. And more than that, refined New York Poppy was nowhere to be seen. But Poppy James of Savannah, Georgia kicked even bigger ass.

  * * *

  If Naveed is mad, he doesn’t show it. After I spend twenty minutes walking the edge off my anger, I call him with a brief and probably inadequate explanation, but I think he can sense I’m not in the right headspace to chat. There’s work left to do at the office so I head back there, planning on tiptoeing past any humans and sequestering myself for a few hours. At least it will get my mind off Angus Dickhead McKinley and that joke of an interview. I wouldn’t let him be featured in our amazing magazine if my life depended on it!

  Tomorrow will be a new day. I’ll officially be back in my design wheelhouse, Naveed can move on and find a fabulous alternative for the urban artisan spot, JoJo can stay on the cover—which is just as well since it saves me the bother of a redesign—and, best of all, my apartment will officially be ready.

  This is one time where I’m glad for the anonymity New York offers. I scan my card and slide right past security in the lobby and no one pays me any mind on the elevator. A glance around at the women and men shows that I fit right in with my fancy duds and designer handbag. Who cares if I had to blow more money on the outfit than I technically should? Even with my walking, I don’t have a blister, so these shoes were totally worth it.

  I sneak by the executive offices without stopping to speak to anyone and am almost home free as I turn the last corner in the maze to my private domain when I spot Naveed coming from the direction of my office.

  He looks… guilty.

  I stop. “Naveed?”

  He keeps walking and when he gets within a few feet he wrinkles his nose just like Iris when she’s been caught red-handed with my turquoise hand-stitched boots.

  “Sorry,” is all he says—not sounding sorry at all—as he keeps walking past me and turns a corner.

  I swear, that man confounds me. I consider going after him, but curiosity gets the better of me and my feet take me to my office with careful steps. At this point, there could be anything waiting for me in there—flowers, a pit bull, a homeless stripper—or…

  NO!

  Just as I take my last step it dawns on me that freaking Bobby Lee Collinsworth is undoubtedly waiting for me like the turd on my dog-crap sandwich of a day.

  But when my eyes hit the room, I realize it’s infinitely worse.

  Because Bobby Lee is nowhere to be found. Angus McKinley, on the other hand, is leaning his firm backside against my desk, set jaw and penetrating eyes fixed directly on me like I’m a plate of ribs he’s fixing to eat with his bare hands. Not that I’d ever accuse him of having table manners anyway.

  “What the devil are you doing here?” It’s out before I can help it.

  I am gonna skin Naveed alive for this. What part of “disaster” and “infuriating suckhole” did he not understand?

  But Angus McKinley throws his hands out in front of him again and drops his eyes to my shoes.

  “I come in peace,” he grinds out without moving from my desk.

  I sidestep him to get to the other side of the desk, needing something solid between us. It causes him to rise to his full height and turn. I fuss with setting my purse in my drawer to buy myself some time and avoid looking at him. This office is way too small for him. I wonder if he had to duck his head to get through the doorway.

 
“I want to… apologize.” The word sounds like it took a bit more effort to expel than he would have liked.

  But it hits its mark because my purse is forgotten and my eyes swing up to his face again. I’m sure my open mouth reflects every bit of surprise I feel.

  “Um, okay,” I manage. Then I wrestle my manners in place. He may be a bit of a heathen and an ass, but Cookie would kick my butt if I didn’t offer a seat to someone calling on me to apologize. “You want a seat?”

  He spares the chairs across from my desk the briefest of glances before shaking his head once. Which is probably just as well since he might send it crumbling to the ground if he did squeeze his big bod in one.

  But he does take a step back, as if he realizes the difference in our heights now that I’m sitting makes his presence even more intimidating.

  He draws in a deep breath and, Jesus help me, I can’t keep my eyes from dropping to his expansive chest. The white t-shirt strains with his inhale and my scalp begins to sweat. Dammit!

  When he finally lets it out, he says the last thing on God’s green earth I expect to hear.

  “I thought you had a twin.”

  My head cocks hard to the side ala every damn cartoon character ever. “Huh?” Wow, it’s a good thing I’m no longer worried about my impression with this guy.

  He runs a thumb and forefinger over his scruff and I must have the hearing of a hound dog because I can hear the scrape from across the desk. It registers in the very depths of my panties.

  “Only that day in Elle’s office.” His finger makes the smallest of motions from its spot on his jaw to the air. “With the hair.” He pauses and drops his hand back to his thigh. “And the shark thing.”

  Uh, somebody’s lost the plot. I can only assume he’s talking about the difference in my professional persona versus the train wreck he met the other times, but I have no idea what the shark thing is about.

  “The shark thing?”

  He just nods.