Her Dirty Builders (Men at Work #10) - Mika Lane Page 0,6

team, get everyone you know to vote for us in the national free weekly newspaper challenge. We have a strong chance at winning, and winning will bring City Scene the kind of respect we deserve.”

I waited for him to beat on his chest.

One of the most tiring things about Adam, and there were many of them, was that he acted like City Scene was the fucking New York Times. According to him, he’d worked there briefly as a lowly copy aide right after college, and he bitterly never stopped talking about it. He’d expected to have a career there, but for whatever reason, it hadn’t panned out. No one knew why—but we could guess.

So as revenge, he was out to make City Scene the best paper he could, never mind that no one at the New York Times had ever heard of us and likely never would. He was going to show them, though. And they’d rue the day they sent him packing.

“On to the last item on today’s agenda.”

Sighs of relief spread through the room.

“The first annual City Scene retreat!” he squealed.

He looked around, expecting to see enthusiasm at least matching his.

He didn’t.

“Look, guys, I know you think team-building is bogus, but this will make us a stronger and better paper.”

Watch out, New York Times.

“And for the retreat, I’m putting Esme in charge.” He clapped his hands and bounced in his sneakers a little.

Once again, all eyes were on me, and Matt nudged me hard to remind me to keep my big mouth shut. But it didn’t work.

“Um, Adam, I’m really busy with setting up interviews for the women’s conference coming to town. That’s going to take all my time, so maybe you could delegate this to someone else—”

But he drowned me out. “Esme will do a kick-ass job with her creative thinking and excellent organizational skills. Thanks everyone. Have a great day.”

The stampede ensued as people scurried back to their desks before Adam assigned them some dumb-ass project.

Matt and I were heading to our adjacent cubes when Adam stopped me.

“Esme, can I see you in my office?” Without waiting for an answer, he turned, assuming, of course, that I would just follow.

And I did.

“Esme,” he said, settling into his chair and folding his hands together, “grab a seat.”

What was going on? He never invited me to sit in his office.

But I could play it cool. I settled into the chair opposite him, crossed my legs, and leaned back, the epitome of confidence with my friendly but not-too-eager smile.

“Esme, I’ve been thinking.”

Oh god.

“You know, with your recent experience…” He paused, waiting for my reaction.

But I didn’t give him one.

I could only imagine where he was going with this.

He shifted impatiently. “Well, I was thinking you could write something up for the paper. You know, about it… all. The whole thing. How it went down. How you survived it. And how you’re rebuilding your life.”

No, no, no.

He did not just ask me to write about the worst experience of my life.

How it went down?

How I survived?

Could he be any more demeaning?

He was probably happy when he heard the news. Figured I needed to be taken down a notch or two.

But I didn’t say a word, and he continued digging himself in deeper.

“This could really be a hit for both you and the paper,” he said smugly. “You could talk about your hopes and dreams, your dress. By the way, I heard it was very pretty.”

Jesus, he was still bent out of shape he wasn’t invited.

“Talk about the mother of the bride’s dress—”

“I don’t have a mother,” I interrupted.

He turned a light pink. “Oh. Really? I didn’t know that.”

No, he wouldn’t know that because all he ever talked about was himself.

He leaned over his desk with hunger in his eyes. “What do ya think?”

I hoped he hadn’t noticed my hands on the arms of my chair, gripping so hard my knuckles were white. “Um, can I think about it?” I asked in a choked voice.

He smacked his hand on the desk like it was a done deal. “Excellent. Can’t wait to hear your ideas.”

Thank god it was time for lunch because I walked straight out of the office and to my car.

5

ESME

Not ten minutes later, I reached my house. Well, Eddie’s and my house—even though I was the only one living there. I parked at the curb because the driveway was too crumbly to drive on with anything besides a four-wheel drive, and ran over the weedy lawn to the front