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one?ā€

My roomie would never be caught wearing anything less than a meticulously composed ensemble. Even at home, she wears skinny jeans and tight tops, while I hang out in sweatpants and oversized T-shirts that may or may not have holes.

This time she has a point, though.

The pantsuit isnā€™t the most flattering piece I own. Itā€™s a hand-me-down gift from my motherā€™s second cousinā€™s daughter, Juanita, so it doesnā€™t fit me perfectly and itā€™s a tick old-fashioned.

But if we go out shopping now, Iā€™ll lose precious time.

I canā€™t have that. I absolutely need this job. Thereā€™s just too much I must learn about this ad agency before Iā€™ll feel confident to show up for the interview.

Being well-prepared trumps looking pretty.

Besides, no dress I could buy would make me look as gorgeous as my roomie. For that, Iā€™d need to lose at least another ten pounds (not impossible but tough with my sweet tooth) and grow a foot (which is unachievable anyway).

I give Chelsea a reassuring look. ā€œIā€™m not aiming to become Devon Griffinā€™s personal assistant. To get that positionā€ā€”I tap his photoā€”ā€œyouā€™ll need to look fabulous, but Juanitaā€™s suit should be enough to land me the copywriting internshipā€¦if I come across as knowledgeable about their business.ā€

ā€œFine, but once weā€™re hired, weā€™re going on a shopping spree, okay?ā€ Chelsea asks.

ā€œOkay, I give in.ā€

Chelsea picks at her nails, and when she notices that the polish on one is slightly chipped, she jumps up.

ā€œLaia, do you mind starting with the background search alone? I have a nail emergency.ā€

Without waiting for my answer, she dashes out of my room.

I sigh and open my computer. I fire up a browser window and type ā€œHudson Communicationsā€.

As the page loads, a hopeful voice hums in my chest. Maybe Chelsea didnā€™t exaggerate when she boasted that all our problems would be solved thanks to her idea.

Chapter 2

(Devon)

I shift the phone further from my ear before the high-pitched female voice Iā€™ve been listening to for ten minutes risks bursting my eardrum and lean back on my executive chair.

ā€œAre you ready to throw away all the magic we shared, Devon?ā€

The magic? What is this girl even talking about?

Before I can react to her question, my office door opens and my secretary Katja enters, carrying a dubious murky liquid in a tall glass.

ā€œNot again,ā€ I murmur under my breath as I observe the curious juice.

I hired Katja five years ago. In her mid-fifties, sheā€™s practically old enough to be my mother, and this fact makes her disregard several rules that normally apply to a boss-employee relationship. I cut her some slack on that because her robust build, wide jaw, and always impeccably woven milkmaid braids discourage visitors from ignoring my closed-door policy. Also, if Iā€™m honest, I quite like her bossy matron style.

But her new hobby of fixing up health concoctions instead of serving me my usual cup of joeā€”a double Arabicaā€”is starting to get on my nerves.

There is a vexed sniff from the phone. ā€œDevon, are you talking to me?ā€

ā€œAh, no, I wasnā€™t. Sorry, Clarissa, Iā€”ā€

ā€œMy name is Claudia!ā€

ā€œRight. Claudia,ā€ I correct, shooting a nasty glance at Katjaā€™s gloating face.

My secretary mustā€™ve given me the wrong name on purpose when she announced the call. Her little retaliation for leaving her in charge of my personal cell phone, I suppose.

ā€œThatā€™s what I meant,ā€ I hurry to cover up my slip. ā€œListen, Claudia, Iā€™m sorry if you misunderstood how things stood between us. We had a fun weekend together. Three days, nothing more. I was quite clear that Iā€™m not looking for anything else beyond that, soā€¦ā€

ā€œI thought you would realize what a special connection we had. But you only used me!ā€ Claudia exclaims.

ā€œI didnā€™t use you. You said you wanted pleasure with no strings attached. You made me assume we were on the same page.ā€

Katja reaches my double pedestal desk and places the glass in front of me. She gives me a condemning look to show she isnā€™t buying my excuse to Claudia.

Well, too bad.

Iā€™m not the bad person here.

My only fault is that I believed Claudiaā€™s fib. She obviously assumed that I donā€™t know myself and my own wishes well enough. A conclusion at which too many women arrive, unfortunately, despite my best efforts at being transparent with them.

My buddy Pete is much better at sensing this kind of female neediness from the get-go. Thatā€™s why these calls rarely happen to him.

Katjaā€™s chiding gaze is getting unnerving, and I shift my glance to the glass once more. With the tableā€™s oak shade as a backdrop, the drink isnā€™t mud-grey as it looked from a distance, but plays in a green undertone.

This new color doesnā€™t make it more inviting.

ā€œYou know what, Devon? I think Iā€™m done with you,ā€ Claudia whimpers in my ear. ā€œYou donā€™t deserve me.ā€

I see a chance to close this utterly pointless discussion with a positive note, so I quickly agree. ā€œNo, I definitely donā€™t. Iā€™m so sorry.ā€

My admission must puzzle Claudia, because her timbre becomes softer. ā€œOh, I thought you did. I wanted you to be the one.ā€

My eyes flick to the clock on my screen.

Jeez, I need to get back to this briefing report if I want the photographers to start with the shooting tomorrow.

I try for a voice thatā€™s understanding but not too tender. ā€œYou deserve someone much better than me, Claudia. And donā€™t worry, youā€™ll find him.ā€ Then, desperate to cut the call short, I add, ā€œI think itā€™s best to leave it at this.ā€

Claudia gives out an indignant snort. ā€œFine, youā€™re a man with an empty heart, and I donā€™t have anything more to tell you. Live well, Devon. Or donā€™t!ā€

After her theatrical good-bye, Claudia hangs up, and I lower my phone.

Katja pushes the glass closer to me, risking the eerie content spilling onto a re-branding plan Iā€™ve just approved.

ā€œDrink up, please,ā€ she barks in her familiarly harsh voice.

ā€œWhat is this?ā€

ā€œSauerkraut juice with cucumber and ginger.ā€ Katjaā€™s mild Slavic accent gets accentuated as she rolls the ā€˜rā€™ in her words. ā€œDonā€™t be a baby, drink it!ā€

ā€œYou shouldnā€™t have bothered,ā€

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