Right Man, Right Time (The Vancouver Agitators, #3)(5)

Ross told me he heard Candace offhandedly mention to one of the girls in the office how I used her Post-it Notes and didn’t bother to replace them. She sounded irritated.

It was ONE Post-it.

See what I’m talking about?

Petty.

Clearing my throat, I say, “So . . . with all due respect, what were you thinking when you gave me my assignment?”

Her amused eyes turn toward me as she says, “Well, all I heard all summer was how much you enjoyed the male form, objectifying men in every which way.” What the hell is she talking about? “I thought your assignment would be perfect for you.”

“I wasn’t objectifying men,” I say because if anything, I was professional all summer, and that was exhausting. There were many times I didn’t want to be professional.

Like when Candace bossed people around for half an hour while her fly was undone. I could have asked her if she was attempting to win the boss’s affection, maybe offer a panty parade, or even looking for singles ready to mingle. But did I open my mouth? Nooooo, and that’s because I was a professional.

I didn’t tell her it was down either because just that morning, she’d yelled at me for taking the last Green Mountain blueberry coffee pod. Someone had to take it, and that someone just happened to be me.

“I distinctly remember you going into great detail about the contours and crevices of Chris Hemsworth’s body.”

I shake my head, trying to comprehend her idiocy. “That was on a lunch break, and it’s because he just came out with a series of pictures in Men’s Health. How does that have anything to do with my assignment of . . . hockey?”

Yup, she gave me hockey. A sport I know absolutely nothing about other than . . . skates, uh . . . puck . . . stick . . . and lots of ice. That about sums it up.

She smiles. “Figured you could study the contours and crevices of hockey players. After all, hockey is a national treasure in Canada. You could really do something special with the assignment.”

Petty. She is so freaking petty.

I can be petty, you know. I could . . . uh . . . I could kick her right in the crotch. Not sure if that’s petty, but it sure as hell would make me feel better. A toe to her camel toe. Blam-o, instant joy for me.

“I know nothing about hockey, and you know damn well if I turn in a fluff piece about muscles and perfectly proportioned man nipples, Roberts isn’t going to give me credit for this summer internship. Everything rides on these last assignments.” I can feel myself losing my cool.

If I don’t do a good job on this assignment, I might have to repeat the internship, and I can’t do that. Repeating would put me behind, and I need to graduate at the end of this year. I have a strict schedule.

She taps her chin. “Hmm, you might be right about that. Looks like you need to learn some hockey.”

Stepping forward, I point my finger at her. “You did this on purpose, all because of a Post-it. Honestly, how could you—”

“Darling, there you are,” a male voice says. A familiar male voice. A voice so bone-chillingly familiar that I feel my stomach bottom out as I slowly look up to see Yonny Biliak standing in front of me.

Actually, not just standing in front of me but wrapping his arm around Candace and kissing the side of her cheek.

No fucking way.

Who is Yonny Biliak, you ask?

A self-proclaimed rising star in the legal field, horrid offender of crisscrossing suit patterns, expert dribble pee-er, and my ex-boyfriend of two years. He broke up with me this summer, stating we were going our own ways. He thought it’d be best that we focus on our careers and not each other.

Funny how it’s the end of summer, and he seems NOT to be focusing on his career but rather the backside of Candace Roundhouse.

Like I can actually see him rubbing her ass. Right here, in the middle of a bar, as if we’re in the privacy of his stuffy bedroom where he chose to show affection because PDA was forbidden. He had to uphold an image, after all.

“The beefy sweetheart of my life,” Candace coos back as she lifts her hand to his ill-shaven face and kisses his dry, crusty lips. At least that’s how I want them to be, but they actually look quite moisturized, which just irritates me even more. Looks like the man found chapstick. Also, can we please pause for a moment and lament over the pet name “beefy sweetheart”? Blech. “I’m so glad you found me. I’m lost without you,” Candace continues.

Oh, come on.

Are they trying to make the bar collectively dry-heave?

I feel Ross lean into me, his hand slowly falling to my back protectively. I appreciate him. He knows how I was after my breakup with Yonny. Yonny never treated me right, yet I still gave him all of me, so when we broke up, I didn’t take it that well.

I spent more time holding a bottle of wine to my lips than I care to admit . . . and yelling at innocent birds just trying to put in a day’s work of finding twigs and worms.

When the two sugarplum sweethearts of our generation are finally done cooing at each other, Yonny looks up, only to be partially stunned when I come into view.

“Ollie,” he says, straightening up. “Didn’t see you there. How, uh, how are you?”

Lovely.

Bubbling with euphoria.

On the precipice of so much joy that my soulless heart—as you once called it—might combust into micro pieces of merriment.