Faker - Sarah Smith Page 0,1

chooses to shop at. I’m paid in frowns, grimaces, scowls, and blank stares.

He’s never once stepped foot in my office. I’m convinced it’s yet another one of his passive-aggressive digs at me, since he waltzes with confidence through every other space in this building. The closest he’s ever gotten is hovering around my doorway. I wonder what it would take for him to cross that invisible boundary. Would I need to be choking with bloodshot eyes, begging for him to administer the Heimlich?

I toss the paper into the trash can. It wasn’t always this way. Before he started, I was asked by the hiring manager to email him a product catalog so he could familiarize himself with the inventory. His reply was nothing short of impressive.

Emmie,

Thank you for the helpful information. I’m told working quarters will be tight, but I’ve also heard many wonderful things about you. Looking forward to sharing space with one of Nuts & Bolts’ finest.

Sincerely,

Tate Rasmussen

On his first day, I skipped into his office, mesmerized. I couldn’t help it. I was a moth drawn in by the glow of his white skin, his curly blond locks, broad shoulders, that sharp jaw. This handsome stranger looked so different from me, with my olive complexion and dark hair.

When I introduced myself, disgust and horror filled his face. Lines jutted into his forehead and his eyebrows pinched together, aging his late-twenties face in an instant. Had we passed each other on the street, he would have shrieked at the sight of me and run the other way.

He weakly shook my hand, then directed his attention back to his paperwork. His instant rebuff hurt, but I chalked it up to first-day-of-work nerves. It wasn’t. Every attempt at polite small talk, every invite to lunch was met with rejection.

And then I overheard him on the phone. Through his cracked-open door, I heard, “I don’t even know what to say about her. It’s only been a week.”

I froze. I should have plugged my ears or shoved in my headphones, but I couldn’t.

“Just looking at her . . .” Disdain dripped from his voice. “I don’t know how long I’ll be able to deal.”

So that was it. We would never, ever like each other.

I had no idea what I did to turn him sour so quickly. I should have confronted him, but I didn’t have the strength. I was humiliated, going out of my way to welcome someone who hated me instantly for some unknown reason. From that afternoon, I quit engaging him unless it was a work-related issue and he was the only one who could help. We fell into a pattern of ignoring and arguing with each other.

I shove away the bitter memory and staple copies of a shopping guide I wrote. A soft squeak distracts me, and I look up to see Tate leaning back against his chair, stretching. His sleeve slides up his arm, and I catch a glimpse of skin. His paleness never ceases to wow me. Living in Nebraska, I was surrounded by countless white children in school, but Tate puts them to shame. His skin practically glows. I want to ask what SPF he uses, how long it takes him to burn when he’s outside, but that’s small talk, and he refuses to make it with me.

I could say his complexion makes him haggard, but it would be a lie. The lack of color actually suits him. Raphaelian-hued skin, blond hair, eyes so light blue they’re almost gray. His photo belongs in a travel brochure for Nordic countries. He’s a living, breathing advertisement for that region. It’s another reason I can’t stand him. A person as unpleasant as Tate shouldn’t look that good.

He catches me before I can turn away. Busted.

“Like what you see?”

“Just wondering if you burst into flame the moment you step into sunlight.” I can feel myself blushing, but thankfully, my own tan skin conceals it.

His ever-present neutral expression remains. I’d wager his genes have never been infiltrated by a person of color. His ancestors must have been stationed for generations near the Arctic Circle, surrounded by the Baltic and North Seas, no tan people like me allowed entry for generations.

“Not all of us are lucky enough to tan at the drop of a hat like you do, Emmie. What’s your secret?”

I ignore his sarcastic question. He’s trying to get a rise out of me. I will not give it to him.

This is how most of our interactions go. A mix of