Page 8 of The Best Worst Thing

The Appraisal

October, Four Years Ago

Can you cover that thing up?” he said, already laughing. “I can’t see in here!”

Nicole rolled her eyes. She’d been at Porter Sloane for five months and every day was kind of like this. Nicole, working on some report. Logan working on … nothing. He’d been on his way to the copy room, or maybe it was the kitchen, but had gotten a bit sidetracked.

“Logan, come on. I’m—”

“Eye health, Speyer.” He slid on a pair of Ray-Bans and smirked. “You don’t hear about it a lot, it’s not sexy. But I’m a very careful man.”

Nicole stared into her computer screen, trying not to laugh. “I’m literally in the middle of something. Isn’t there anyone else here you can—”

“Come on,” he said. “Let’s see that thing.”

She rolled her eyes again, then held out her hand. They’d played this game a dozen times. On Nicole’s finger? A flawless, four-carat diamond. Princess cut, set atop a simple platinum band. He peered at it like a child playing detective.

“Subtle,” he said. “I like it.”

Nicole snickered, then pulled back her hand. Fingers to keys. Eyes to spreadsheet.

“So,” he said. “Whatcha doing today?”

“Working. You should try it.”

Logan did work, of course. He was SVP, New Business.

If Porter Sloane had a chance to score a first-time client, Logan handled the courtship, the big pitch.

But that was all he did. If there was no account to win, no chief marketing officer to woo, then there was no work.

Unless Quentin—the agency’s owner—felt like asking Logan a question.

If he couldn’t answer it over a two-minute phone call, Quentin would demand Logan come meet him for dinner in Monterey, or a seven-hour hike in Big Sur, or, once even, the entire back half of Burning Man.

“Me? Work? Never.”

“Why do you get such a nice office, then?”

“Oh, for gaming purposes,” he said, taking a seat on her filing cabinet, putzing around with a paper clip. “You should stop by later. I’ll show you my SimFarm.”

Nicole, who’d just taken a long sip of her soda, nearly spit it out. “Your what?”

“My simulated farm, obviously. Aren’t you a wordsmith? Anyway, it’s an old game—a classic, really. Very true-to-life. Droughts and pests and tractor depreciation and everything.”

Nicole shook her head, double-checking a pricing table from her media buyer in LatAm while Logan just … loitered.

“Do you need something?” she said. “I’m trying to finish this thing.”

“Yeah, actually. Brie said you were getting all the Buenos Aires numbers together? That ready yet? Need it for tomorrow.”

“That’s what I’m doing! I’m almost done. Go away and maybe I’ll finish before sundown.”

Logan twiddled the paper clip. “You know I can’t promise that.”

“I’m serious,” Nicole said. “I’ll never get out on time if you keep talking at me.”

“Fine.” He took the paper clip he’d stretched into a straight line and shoved it into his pocket. “I should probably be tending to my rutabagas anyway. Very harsh season.”

She waved him off, tsking.

And then, once he’d retreated to his office, once she finally had her peace and quiet, Nicole stared a little more closely at her spreadsheet and tried to wipe the stupid smile off her face.