Page 5

“Most of that dirt isn’t even true. My dad is a fabulous storyteller,” she says and I can tell her mouth is dry by the way she is working her jaw.
I use one finger to slide her second glass closer to her but she doesn’t take it. She keeps her eyes locked on mine, waiting for the punchline.
I have never met a woman so innocently gorgeous and yet so professionally and intellectually my equal.
“And that is why I need better writers on my staff. Writers that know how to put up with him. I want to offer you a job.
“What?” She asks with more volume than she intends and Izzy glances around before looking back at me. “A job as a writer? For Next Big Thing? Working for my father?” She asks every question as if they’re statements. Like the whole thing is a joke.
“No. You’d be working for me. Under me.”
“Why?” She snaps out. “So everyone can give me shit there too? So my dad can make me feel like a failure to my face on a daily basis. Thanks but I’m going to have to pass.” She picks up her drink with a sassy smile, ready to take the first sip.
But I grab her other hand and she stops cold. “I would never let that happen. He’s my friend, sure. But that’s not why I am offering you a job. Fuck, he doesn’t even know I’m offering you a job.”
“Then why? Why would you, a successful business journalist, want me, a recent niche writer flop, want you to work for you?”
“Because I…you’re like family, Izzy. I don’t like seeing you lose everything. You worked hard to get where you are in life. I’ve watched. And I think it’s bullshit that some nose in the air editor who cares more about the Met Gala than she does about good, honest writing is able to discredit you like that. I want to help.”
I am usually one to keep my cards close to my chest. But right now, I am feeling something along the lines of protectiveness. Maybe even territorial.
I stare at her and she stares back. For the life of me I cannot read her thoughts. Her lips, perfect, cherry pink lips, bite together and she parts them just enough to take a small breath and speak. But she doesn’t say what I am expecting.
“I am not taking a charity job.”
“Excuse me?” I lean back, breaking all the unphysical contact between us and my eyes narrow into slits.
“I am not taking a pity job. I am perfectly capable of getting another job, for your information.”
“Oh really? And tell me, how many job offers have you gotten since you got booted?” I cross my arms over my chest and wait.
Izzy says nothing.
“That’s what I thought. This is not a charity offer, it’s a lifeline.”
“I don’t want it.” She punches out every syllable and heat rises inside me.
“You are a spoiled brat.”
“And you are pretentious.” She stands up and straightens her dress. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to use the restroom.”
Izzy takes one step from the table and under her breath, she mumbles. “Fuck you.”
I shove up from my chair like a lightning bolt and step in front of her.
“What did you say?” I keep my voice low so we don’t cause a scene though I’m pretty sure people are curious. I don’t really care. I am caught between angry and turned on and I don’t love it. I also don’t want it to stop.
“I said fuck you.”
Her words graze across my skin and light every inch of me on fire.
I lean down and brush her curls around from her face. My lips brush the shell of her ear. “I think you mispronouncedfuck me,sweetheart. I am doing you a favor. And I could do more than one…”
I can hear the faint, quick draw of air at my words and Izzy looks up at me. “I would never. I am not that kind of girl.”
“Of course not. You’re a good girl, aren’t you?” I ask, playing with one of those curls and I can tell by the way she is shifting her weight that I am unraveling her with each tug.
It’s a tease. A joke. I’m kidding—I think—and obviously I don’t mean it. I can’t. She’s off limits. Izzy reaches for her glass, never dropping eye contact with me, and I can tell this is about to get ugly. I’ve seen this look before from women I’ve pissed off at bars in my younger, more reckless years. I am about to get a cocktail to the face.