She held up a stapler. “Oops. I don’t think I was supposed to take this from my last assignment.” She glanced at me. “Do you think I’m out to get you?”
My gut response was no, but I wasn’t sure I could trust it. She was proving to be quite the actress—small and meek one moment, then down my throat the next. “I think you like power.”
“Who doesn’t?” Next, she pulled out a small, diamond-shaped award and studied it. “For an essay I did on the underrepresentation of real women in media.”
I nodded. “I have awards too.”
Sort of. The soccer trophy on the shelf behind me was from a thrift store. Justin had covered the plaque with a white label and written “Sexiest Beast in the Northeast” in black marker.
“What’s a real woman?” Georgina didn’t strike me as the type to be insecure.
“Do you really want to know?”
“Why wouldn’t I? I love women.”
“I don’t know you very well, Mr. Quinn, but I get the feeling you don’t date or even know any real women.”
That was a fucked-up assumption. Maybe I didn’t have the most diverse dating track record, but anyone who dared call my mom or sister fake was asking for trouble. “Try me.”
“Okay. How about this? Five pounds that won’t budge for the life of you. Stretch marks. Ill-fitting undergarments. Period stains. Bunions that take your favorite heels out of rotation. Roots.”
I struggled to keep up. I’d been with my fair share of women, and had grown up with two, but these weren’t familiar problems. Except maybe period stains—Mom had taught me how to remove anything from any garment, sometimes against my will. “What do you mean by roots?”
She patted the top of her head. “You know—if we’re not diligent with our stylists, our true colors start to show.”
Damn. I studied her. She wasn’t a full-on redhead, more autumn day than summer heat, but I’d assumed it was natural, and I usually had good instincts about these things. “You too?”
With a sly smile, she said, “I’m not telling.”
George had nice hair, so much that it almost threatened to overpower her. With her back to me this morning, it was the first thing I’d noticed when I’d walked into the café. A cascading blend of chocolate, maple syrup, and mahogany—just a few of my favorite things. I let my eyes wander a little lower. “I don’t see five pounds.”
“That’s because I’ve perfected my ability to hide them.” She laughed. “Or you just aren’t looking hard enough.”
I’d never heard a woman laugh about extra weight before. If Georgina thought she was up five pounds, most likely they were located in her northern region. As in, her cup filleth over. As in, she had big tits for such a small girl.
The flirt in me was about to suggest she take off her clothes so I could check for any other insecurities—such as ill-fitting undergarments or stretch marks, both of which I doubted existed—but I bit my tongue. Now that I knew the situation, there was only one thing I wanted less than to be interested in her, and that was her thinking I might be.
“And no, you cannot check the fit of my bra,” she said, calling my eyes back up to her face.
Christ. Not only had she read my mind, and stolen my comeback, but she’d caught me looking. Again. I couldn’t resist. With attractive women, flirting was a reflex, like fist bumping after a soccer goal, taking a shot placed in front of me, or tearing up during Titanic.
Yet, with our conversation, the tension in the room alleviated a little. Our easy banter reminded me of how I was with Justin or the guys on my team, but I couldn’t forget how Georgina had shown her true colors earlier at the café—and I wasn’t talking about her hair.
5
Sebastian
“Should we get started?” Georgina asked. Seated on my office couch, she’d returned to searching her box for the state of Rhode Island or whatever else she was storing in there.
I looked down at the simple yellow legal pad on my otherwise tidy desk. I’d already started. Without her. Because this was my job and my office. “Be my guest.”
“I thought we could call a meeting with your—our team. This morning was a good overview, but I want to get into the nitty gritty. Come up with a strategy.”
“We meet after lunch.”
“Well, let’s try things differently today.” She brought her laptop over, pulling up a chair to the opposite side of my desk. “I just want to let them know where we stand.”
I sat back. “Where do we stand?”
“That’s what we’re going to figure out.” She opened her laptop and tried to power it on before returning to the box. “Hmm, strange. I could’ve sworn I packed my charger. I’ll just have to do it old school.”
After what felt like ten minutes of her sifting through more things, and then her purse, and then a tote bag, even I was exhausted. “Need something to write on?” I asked.
“Yes, please.” She came back, smiled sweetly, and took the spiral bound pad and pen I offered. Instead of sitting, she switched off the overhead light and raised the blinds the last few inches. “Do you mind? I can’t stand artificial light during the day.”
I followed her with my eyes as she returned. “Sure.”
“Thanks.” She shoved more gummy bears in her mouth and began to pace. “What did you think about what I said this morning?”
I set my elbows on the desk, lacing my fingers in front of my face, and tried to think of a diplomatic response. “I thought it was bullshit.”
I’d climbed every rung of my career ladder. I’d spent enough years kissing ass and kowtowing to rich kids to get here. Why was I still biting my tongue? So I could end up taking direction from an amateur?
She stopped walking and glanced up from the notepad. I waited for her reaction, hoping she wouldn’t rat me out to Vance, or worse—cry again. Women’s tears made me think of my mom and sister and the payback I’d exact on anyone who made them cry. Had my morning been different, and my job hadn’t been at stake, I would’ve gone after Georgina earlier to apologize.
She smiled. “Thank you.”
“Why are you thanking me?”
“I work best with people who are direct. I have no time for men who think they might hurt my feelings.” She resumed pacing, making a note on her pad as she rushed out, “By the way, this morning was out of character for me, and I assure you it won’t happen again. That’s why I wanted to apologize.”
I lowered my hands from my face but remained wary. Was this like the time one of our editorial models had told me she was okay with no-strings-attached sex a month before my doorman had caught her graffitiing my front door while I’d been on a date with another woman?
“So which part exactly did you think was bull?” she asked before I could respond.
“There were a few things.” I leaned in as if to tell her a secret. “But mostly, we’re not a women’s magazine.”
“I never said you were.”
“So why would we market to them? Our female demographic is low because they’re not the heart of this magazine. Can’t win ’em all, know what I mean?”
“Mr. Quinn—Sebastian?”
I refrained from rolling my eyes. We’d already discussed breasts and stretch marks. She’d accused me of being entitled, and I’d called her an imposition. We’d blown right by formalities before we’d even officially met. I nodded for her to continue.
“Who do you think buys magazines? I’ve looked over MM’s reports, and for the website, focusing largely on the male readership makes sense. Men mostly browse and make purchases online. They subscribe to the magazine, and typically, we have them for life after that because they’re too lazy to unsubscribe.”
“You mean the magazine’s too good to unsubscribe from.”
“But the decline in print sales could set a distressing trend, and it’ll impact advertisers’ budgets,” she said, ignoring me. “Women are generally the ones out shopping and spending money during the day—grocery stores, malls, bookstores.”