Worth the Risk(10)
She lifts her brows and shrugs absently as she tries hard not to let her resentment surface.
She thinks I want her job.
No worries there, Rissa. Modern is one thing I like. Family is not.
“So, do we need to go over your task list again?” she asks with that motherly tone that insinuates if she doesn’t remind me, I’m too careless to remember.
“You mean the one I completed last night? That list?” She stares at me for a beat, trying to gauge whether I’m telling the truth while my eyes silently warn her to back off. “I appreciate your concern, as always, but I’ve been here, . . . what, five weeks? And almost nine in total working on this project? In that time, I haven’t dropped the ball once. I’ve completed every task you’ve put in front of me—no matter how big or how small or even if it is something completely different from what I’ve been sent here to do. If you’ve been testing me to prove my worth, I think I have. If you think I’m here to take your job, I’m not. And if my father has charged you with reporting back to him whether I’m being hands-on or not, then I can’t see how you could tell him otherwise. Maybe we should have cleared the air earlier. Maybe not. But can we just drop this petty bullshit and just focus on what we’re supposed to be doing, so both our lives are easier?”
Our eyes hold, her expression a mixture of stoicism, not wanting to give a reaction, and irritation at being called out. “Nine weeks is a blip on the radar in the scheme of things, Sidney. While you may have succeeded thus far, you still have a lot to learn. And I don’t care what your last name is, I care what you can produce, and right now, you’re sitting on a job only a quarter of the way finished. You’ve yet to hit any snafus, so in my eyes, you still have to prove your worth to me and everyone in this office. Understood?”
I nod out of reflex, the scolding sounding like practiced motherly perfection, while inside I want to scream that I’ve already proven myself.
If there’s a reason she runs this place, she just demonstrated it.
“I can handle anything that comes my way.”
She gives a measured dip of her chin. “Good to hear.”
I take a deep breath. “Any luck with your finalists?” I ask, trying to calm the waters as my mind falls back to my one thought all afternoon: Grayson Malone. I can already see the pictures I’ll have taken of him. The staging. The exploitation. Flight suit unzipped, aviator sunglasses over his eyes. Then some with the glasses off so readers can see how crystal clear those eyes of his are.
I’m obsessing. Usually, it’s over fashion. This time, it’s over a man.
It must be this fresh country air finally getting to me. Maybe that and the fact that it’s been a while since I’ve had sex, so the first man who makes me clench my thighs now owns my thoughts.
“I’ve met my ten, and America picked well. They all have serious sex appeal, but I have one who I think will be the winner. Defined. Dedicated. And Delicious.” She licks her lips and grins, the tension in the room suddenly dissipating.
“Is that so?”
“Mm-hmm. I put my money on Braden Johnson to win. Check him out.”
She turns her computer screen my way, and I murmur a sound of approval. Dark skin that stretches taut over muscled perfection. Kind, brown eyes that hold a unique combination of sincerity and amusement. A smile that lights up his features and matches the one the little girl next to him is wearing. She’s adorable and so are her pigtails.
“He’s hot. I’ll definitely give you that.” I stare a bit longer, noting the way her whole hand is gripping his index finger. It still isn’t enough to get Grayson out of my head. “But I’ll take your money and raise the ante because the guy I went to see, the Grayson Malone guy—”
“The hometown boy, right?”
“Yep.” I meet her smile for smile. “Not only is he the one who is going to win, but also he is going to put a face to this contest and give us the publicity we need to bring it to the next level. He’s the total package.”
Her laughter fills the shared office space. “That’s a pretty bold statement about the flyboy we don’t have a clear picture of.”
“I’m telling you.” I turn my chair to face hers. “We put him on the cover, and we’ll not only sell print but also increase our online presence. Step up the promotions—I’ve already been able to secure BuzzFeed, TMZ, Perez. If they’ll talk about him, we could get a rally behind him.”
“That’s pretty biased, don’t you think?” she says, pursing her lips as she leans back in her chair and studies me. “Readers are supposed to pick the winners. Not us.”
“I believe you already had your pom-poms out for Braden.”
“Agreed. But you’re the one in control. Pulling the strings. You could easily sway readers to vote for your man over mine.”
“First, he isn’t my man. And second, if it comes down to these two finalists, we could always have a cover contest. The most votes land the winner on a cover, or something like that. Let the readers feel involved.”
“Could work.” Her gaze doesn’t relent, and I know she still isn’t one hundred percent behind my turning her little parenting magazine into a hot man show. Skin sells. Let’s hope that’s true for my sake, anyway. “Let’s get a look at the new images you got of him and the new bio you have written up.”