Faker - Sarah Smith Page 0,3
on my side of the hallway.
“Emmie! Good morning!” He leans his arm against the doorframe. The weight of his pudgy dad bod pushes the flimsy door back an inch. “I can’t seem to find the folder with the photos for that new line of utility knives. I think that software upgrade messed up something on my computer.”
I swallow a laugh. Classic Will. He’s a bright guy and a great boss who doesn’t hover. However, his tendency to lose objects, even digital files, is legendary.
“Can you grab the knives from the warehouse and take some photos of them to go along with the descriptions you wrote?”
The thought of going to the warehouse churns my stomach. “No problem,” I say through gritted teeth.
Full disclosure: I’m not some jaw-dropping hottie by any stretch of anyone’s imagination. But the fifty-employee workforce here is mostly male with only five female employees. The remaining four are middle aged and married. I’m not ugly and I’m relatively young, so by default I get a fair amount of attention and stares. The warehouse is especially obvious about it.
“Going down to the warehouse?” Tate asks. It’s the first time he’s spoken to me today.
“Yep.”
“How long is that going to take you?”
“Not sure. Why?”
“I have to set up a bunch of promo tweets for those utility knives, and the longer your warehouse fan club keeps you down there, the longer I have to wait for you to add them to the site. I can’t tweet the links unless they’re on the website, and I have a million other things to do.”
I say nothing in response. I loathe how he’s trying to make my job about him.
“Do I have to spell it out?” He yanks out his earbuds impatiently and closes his eyes. “I think I should go with you to make sure things get done in a timely manner.”
“So this is purely selfish motivation?”
“Precisely.”
I cringe. Whenever he speaks to me, he routinely pulls out archaic words only a 1950s rural doctor would use.
“Fine. Let’s go.”
We trot side by side in silence down the hall to the stairs. Positioned next to each other, our appearances are a stark contrast. My olive skin is ten shades darker than his, thanks to my Filipino mother. My dad is a pale white guy, but the Asian gene is strong. His hazel eyes and light skin did little to dilute such dominant traits. My hair is technically dark brown, but it could pass for black at a distance. My eyes are such a deep shade of brown, I have to endure extra eye drops at the optometrist to fully dilate them.
The only thing not strikingly different between us is our heights. I’m five feet eight inches, which is nothing short of a miracle considering my mom is a tiny five feet one inch. I have my dad’s European genetics and his burly six-feet-two-inch frame to thank for that.
I estimate Tate at six feet, maybe six feet one inch if he’s standing straight. In the right pair of four-inch heels, I could stand nearly eye to eye with him. However, the fact that our office is casual dress gives me zero reason to wear anything other than sneakers and flats. As often as I fantasize about the opportunity to throw on my favorite killer stilettos and tell him off, it will likely never happen.
Once in the warehouse, I track down the manager, Gus. He’s a no-nonsense baby boomer who aspires to run the warehouse with the strictness of a gulag. Raising his fuzzy gray eyebrows is his preferred way to say hello.
Sliding into boss-bitch mode, I do my best Gus impression: I square my shoulders, frown, and keep things short and direct when I talk.
“I need one of your guys to grab these utility knives. Will’s orders.” I hand him a printed list.
He shoves the paper into the chest of the closest worker and barks directions. The college-aged kid shakes his head in fright before running off. The longer I stand with ramrod straight posture, the more tired I feel. Channeling Gus is exhausting. Shifting my weight between my feet, I almost bump into Tate. He backs up a few inches. It’s ridiculous that he felt the need to follow me all the way down here.
“Watch it,” he says.
“Then don’t stand so close.”
He shoots every single warehouse worker around us a menacing glare. Everyone who walks past us leaves a two-foot buffer of space.
“You’re a friendly one,” I say.
“What are you talking about?”
“Everyone’s avoiding us. You