Hoax Husband - Candice M. Wright
One
Linda
I stare at my hair in the mirror and wince.
Welcome to Vegas, Linda.
I might like the heat, but humidity is not my friend, and my naturally curly hair is twice the size it usually is, giving it an “I just stuck my fingers in an electrical socket” look.
Fanfreakingtastic. I guess I should be grateful my stepfather insisted I dye it back to my mousy brown color from the soft baby pink it was before.
Apparently, having pink hair sent out the wrong message at my conservative job as secretary to Graham Asshole Morgan. All I know right now is, given its current look, I would likely be mistaken for a walking, talking stick of cotton candy, so in a roundabout way, he’s done me a favor. Not that I’d ever tell him that.
Using bobby pins, I try to tame some of the hair, but it's a lost cause. Eventually, I give up and pull it into a ponytail. It's not particularly fancy, but a glance at my watch tells me I’m going to be late if I don't hurry up.
I quickly shimmy into a fitted dark-gray pencil skirt that cups my ass and fits tight to the knee with a small split in the back. I team it with a dusty-pink, long-sleeved silk blouse, ever conscious of my father's words in my head about hiding my tattoos as they look crass in an office environment filled with professionals.
I brushed off his comments at the time, but even with my flippant attitude, his words always have the ability to leave a mark.
Slipping on my black Jimmy Choo’s, I snag my laptop bag and key card from the dresser before heading down to the meeting room on the ground floor of the hotel, where Graham will be giving his presentation.
Thank god for AC, or I’d be a puddle on the floor by the end of the evening.
I take a deep breath as the elevator doors open and will myself to bite my tongue. I made my father a promise, and I won’t break it if I can help it.
Just as I’m about to pull on the door to the conference room, it's forcefully pushed open from the inside, making me wobble on my heels as I’m nearly knocked over.
“There you are, Laura, Jesus fucking Christ. How hard is it to be on time?”
I glance at my watch. I’m five minutes early, but I don't point that out. Graham Morgan is a complete and utter asshole and won’t care what I have to say for myself. Men like him never do. Men just like my father.
I look up at the dark-haired, dark-eyed handsome man and somehow manage to keep the scowl off my face. Graham might be pretty on the outside, but his personality sure leaves a lot to be desired
“Sorry, Mr. Morgan. What can I do to help?”
“Make sure every potential buyer has a prospectus and a fucking drink. That’s not too much to ask now, is it, Laura?”
“No, sir, I’ll get right on that. And it's Linda…” My voice trails off as he walks away, clearly done with this conversation.
Yeah, fuck you very much.
Brushing my damp palms over my skirt, I plaster a fake smile on my face and stroll into the room to do his bidding. Ten minutes later, I’ve set up everything he asked for and seated myself in the corner with my laptop balanced on my knees, ready to take notes.
Graham walks back in, talking to a portly man with a ruddy complexion. I’m too far away to hear what's being said, but it's clear from the scowl on his face the portly man likes Graham about as much as I do.
I look away before I get caught and open the laptop, signing in to the hotel's Wi-Fi as people begin arriving and finding their seats.
I’m so focused on what I’m doing, I don’t realize Graham has approached until he coughs obnoxiously, making me jump.
“Tell me, Laura, how hard is it to get some fucking water in this place? I mean, I’m just dying to know.”
I look at him in confusion, my eyes trailing down to the almost full glass of water in his hand, then back up to his face. “Sir?” I question quietly.
He mumbles something I don’t catch before talking in a much louder voice than before, drawing the attention of those closest to us. “I have a three-hour presentation to give. Do you think in this heat that one measly glass is going to be sufficient?”
I close