Текст книги "The Singles"
Автор книги: Emily Snow
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Текущая страница: 44 (всего у книги 45 страниц)
Acknowledgments
Thank you so much to my readers for being so amazing. Your enthusiasm and support for my books amaze me on a daily basis, and I feel so blessed to have you. Thank you for all the emails, reviews, and Facebook messages. You rock my world!
To Michelle Valentine and Kristen Proby– Thank you ladies for putting up with my randomness and making me laugh. I love you two.
To Holly Malgieri and Jenn Foor: YOU TWO ROCK. Thanks for making me grin all the time!
Christine Bezdenejnih Estevez, you are one amazing chick! Thank you for keeping me organized and for loving my books. BIG HUGS for everything you do (and it’s a lot)!
Thanks to Letitia Hasser at RBA Designs for creating such a beautiful book cover. And to Stacy Kestwick for her wonderful beta-reading skills and Jenny Sims with Editing4Indies for her unbelievingly quick proofreading—you two rock!
To Cris Hadarly, Becca Manuel, and Abbie Dauenheimer—Thank you ladies a million times for being so effing creative. I love the trailers and collages, and I smile like an idiot every time I look at them.
To all my amazing author friends—you guys kick ass. I’m so blessed to be a part of such a great, caring community. Lots of love to you all.
To the bloggers in the romance community—THANK YOU! Your support and love for my books mean so much to me. I appreciate you all more than you could ever imagine. Thank you for taking such good care of me and all the other indie authors.
Sneak Peak: Bad Advice
Turn the page for an exclusive sneak peek at BAD ADVICE—a romantic comedy coming in 2015 from Avonlea Cole and Emily Snow!
Chapter One
Dear Avery,
First of all, I’m a huge fan of your column. I’ve been reading it from the start, and your advice seriously ROCKS! Now for the hard part ... I have been dating this guy for several months. We can call him “Ed.” So, “Ed” and I have been spending the night with each other a few nights a week. He is ALWAYS happy and in a good mood when we’re together, BUT he hasn’t introduced me to any of his friends. He hasn’t changed his Facebook status, and we NEVER go out in public.
What’s going on? Does he even like me? Do I embarrass him? Please help; any advice would be appreciated.
Sincerely,
Confused in Richmond
Dear Confused Denial in Richmond,
This is your conscience saying you need to wake the hell up. Is the truth that unclear that you need to write to a stranger for advice? The dude is cheating on you. You are his sidepiece—his mashed potatoes. His steak has already met his friends and, hell, probably even eats Sunday brunch at the country club with his parents.
He doesn't want to know your feelings, doesn’t care about them, and he sure as hell ain't gonna tell you how he feels. Chalk it up to a booty call and move along. There are plenty of other douchebags in the sea that will actually tell you how they feel.
Keeping It Real In Raleigh,
Amanda Truthslayer
*
For the third time since sitting down on the other side of my boss’s desk, I read through the post she’d taken the liberty to print off for me, screaming out thoughts as they popped into my head.
“Mashed Potatoes? She called my reader mashed-freakin’-potatoes! How in the hell could any woman have so little class or courtesy? Doesn’t she know this is someone’s life she’s talking about? Someone’s dreams she’s crushing?” I crumble the print-off and slam it into the wastebasket by my editor’s desk. “Of course, she doesn’t because she’s a mega-witch!”
Perched across from me in her cushy leather chair, Barb looked none too pleased at my outburst, but really, who could be calm at a time like this? This she-devil—this Amanda Truthslayer—was ruining my career, one nasty keystroke at a time.
“Avery, I know you’re upset.” Actually, I was pissed off, but I bit my tongue. “And I know this is a big deal.” Barb paused for another moment, tapping her long red nails on the edge of her desk. “But apparently, the public is interested in what she has to say.”
I sucked in a harsh breath. Did she have to knee me below the belt so soon? “Really, Barb?”
Ignoring my exasperation, she bobbed her head a little too enthusiastically, causing her elegant black bun to bounce. “Amanda’s gotten almost eighty thousand hits on just this one post, not to mention the thousands of comments, shares, and likes. And this one just went live last night.”
Eighty. Thousand. Hits.
Wow.
Had I ever even gotten close to eighty thousand hits?
Sure, I have... if you combined all the advice articles I’ve written since starting here a little over a year ago, multiplied the total by two, and then added that number to Amanda Truthslayer’s least popular skewering.
Coming to terms with that particular fact gave me a headache, as if Amanda had just shoved another pin in the voodoo doll she must keep of me.
“And,” Barb added in a low voice, “she’s trending on Twitter and Facebook.”
Was it just me or did she sound more and more excited with each piece of crappy news she decided to share with me?
Focusing my gaze up at the tiled ceiling, I tried to calm my nerves by counting to ten, which immediately sent me into the third stage of panic.
Defensiveness.
“Pardon my French, Barb, but this is complete bullshit.” I stood and began pacing, biting my already ragged nails. Barb’s sharp brown eyes followed my erratic movements, but she said nothing. I had never been this unhinged, but damn if what I’d just read hadn’t given me cause to drink. And eat. It was almost a given that I’d have a date tonight with a box of craptastic wine and a medium supreme pizza.
Fisting my hands, I paused in front of the window and stared down at the busy street seven floors below. “I just can’t believe this is happening again,” I said robotically.
Amanda Truthslayer had not only taken another question one of my readers had sent to me—she’d once again flipped my advice, turning it into an all-out bitchfest.
And somehow, her current bitchfest had garnered eighty thousand hits and was now trending on social media.
“How can people even like that sort of thing?” I asked myself aloud.
“Avery!” Barb snapped. I turned to face her, cringing at the sight of her thinned red lips and narrowed eyes. “This is an office, not solitary confinement. Stop talking to yourself and sit down so we can discuss this.”
She swept her hand out at the seat across from her. Reluctantly, I sat, smoothing my flowy black skirt beneath me. “How do I fix this?” I whispered. “What do I do?”
She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her desk. “Look, Avery. Your column is good, and your advice is sweet, but hers is edgy and entertaining. You just have to be ...better. Spice up your column, add a little sass, make readers want to hear what you have to say.”
Was my boss telling me to add a dose of bitchiness to my column?
When I’d gotten the job last year, Barb had given me the history of The Azalea Post. The lifestyle and entertainment paper had been established by her grandfather a few years after World War II ended. It wasn’t until college, when Barb had stumbled upon old copies of the paper that had snagged her interest had she wanted anything to do with her family’s legacy.
“Your advice,” Barb had told me the day she hired me, “reminds me of the Resolutions from Ruth feature that was in my grandpa’s paper. Your view is that sweet throwback this paper desperately needs.”
Apparently, that sweet throwback had gone stale at an alarming speed.
“Avery, are you paying attention to anything I’m saying?” Barb demanded.
I swallowed the tennis ball-sized lump lodged in my throat. “Of course. And I apologize for my brief moment of insanity.” Barb smiled at me like I was a certified fool and clasped her hands together, patiently waiting for me to give her a play-by-play on how I could turn my sugary advice into something that was ... edgy and entertaining. Something that would get our site a gazillion hits overnight.
Something that wasn’t my advice at all.
“I’ll do some research and see what the public is looking for, and I can revamp if necessary,” I promised, standing. I didn’t want to wait for her response. I wasn’t ready for more ultimatums or bad news. Reaching the door to her office, I grabbed the knob, took a deep breath, and then looked over my shoulder. “I’ll let you know what I come up with.”
Barb had returned her attention to her computer, but I noticed her dismissive smile. “You’re a brilliant young woman, Avery. I’m sure you’ll do just fine!” For a moment, I waited for the “Or else” but it never came, so I crept into the hall with my shoulders hunched like an admonished child leaving the principal’s office.
I headed back to my corner cubicle and plunked myself down in the chair. Turning off my screensaver—the not safe for work shirtless picture of Henry Cavill—I checked my email. After seeing that vomit-inducing blog, the full inbox was somewhat of a relief. My column was still a success. Just because some pseudo-advice giver had been twisting my work for the last few months for a website that catered to the miserable didn’t mean my career was over.
Even so, I wanted to kick Amanda Truthslayer’s ass.
Pulling up her page on Snarkjunkies.com, I re-read her advice to my reader once again, and then compared it to my answer to the same question, which had been published three days ago.
Dear Confused,
I know that relationships can be difficult at first and they require a lot of change and compromise. I would say that maybe you should address these feelings with “Ed” and let him know how you feel. Sometimes guys, like girls, can feel torn or shy and they don’t want to put themselves out there for fear of being rejected. I wish you the best of luck and feel free to update us on any new developments.
Lots of love,
Avery
Beneath my answer, the number of hits on my own post curled my lips into a harsh frown. Thirty-five hundred. That wasn’t even a tenth of Amanda’s hits for this week’s bashing.
Crap.
I couldn’t lose this job. I had just moved into my condo and bought a new car. I needed the income. But most of all, I liked my job. I loved giving advice. I’d been doing it for as long as I remembered, and I enjoyed the emotions that came with helping women feel empowered and confident in their relationships. For Amanda to do this to me—again—well, it was enough to knock me down a few notches.
Disgusted at how easily a woman I didn’t even know had managed to shake me, I slammed my laptop shut and closed my eyes.
Massaging the bridge of my nose in a useless effort to ease my pounding headache, I checked the clock on my desk. One-fifteen. I’d already missed the first fifteen minutes of my lunch obsessing over Amanda Truthslayer. Sighing heavily, I shrugged on the purple cardigan hanging on the back of my chair, grabbed my oversized purse, and headed down the hall. I ignored the knowing looks of my coworkers who’d probably already read and shared a chuckle over Amanda’s post. To avoid any awkward conversations, I opted for the stairs instead of the elevator, taking them two at a time because I was so desperate to get outside.
As soon as I exited the building, I stopped on the sidewalk and inhaled deeply. Even though it was the dead of winter, Charlotte was warm. It was a far cry from Grand Forks, the North Dakota town I’d grown up in.
I first fell in love with Charlotte while attending Queens University, but it wasn’t until a year after I graduated—when I came back to visit my friend Tessa—that I decided to make it my home. Tessa had helped me get started with The Azalea Post when she’d introduced me to Barb, who was a friend of Tessa’s mother. I was beyond excited to move back to Charlotte and, up until a few months ago, this job had been everything I could ask for. The public—well most of them—had responded well to my advice.
So who in the hell was Amanda Truthslayer anyway to downgrade my opinions?
Shoving my hands into the shallow pockets of my cardigan, I walked slowly down the sidewalk, being careful not to get my stilettos stuck in the cracks as I made the six-block trek to the little café on East Trade Street. The place had the best milkshakes I’ve ever tasted, and this was definitely a sugary dairy kind of day. Screw the diet.
When Gabby, my favorite waitress, spotted me settling into a booth at the front of the shop, she bounced over, pen and pad in hand. “Told you resolutions were meant to be broken,” she teased, reminding me of my declaration that I was taking a break from their addictive shakes and fried pickles a few weeks ago. “I’ve missed seeing you around, Avery.”
“Yeah, I’ll give that resolution another go next year.” I shook my head when she offered me a menu. “Can I just get a blueberry shake?”
“You got it, babe.” She winked. “For what it’s worth, you so didn’t need that resolution. You’re gorgeous, girl!”
A flush crept across my skin. “Thanks.”
Alone again with my thoughts, I pulled out my phone and spent several agonizing minutes reading Amanda’s comment section. The “Truthslayer” was personally responding to some of her readers, whose feedback on her newest post ranged from smiley faces to “Amen” to several that were flat-out ridiculed by not only my reader but also my original advice.
Dejected, I slid my phone into my purse and waited for Gabby to return with my milkshake. The first few sips were painfully cold, but soon the blueberry goodness took over my senses, temporarily smothering all thoughts of the other advice column. Sighing, I glanced up at the television mounted over my booth. It was tuned to a Charlotte-based station, which was featuring a local success story.
“... Earned his fortune in the mobile gaming market, but Max Bradbury has expanded his reach in a way that has the Internet abuzz,” the reporter said from where she stood in front of a massive slate-colored building. “Just last year, Bradbury Enterprises unleashed Snark Junkies. Max Bradbury boasts that this entertainment and social networking website allows content providers the freedom to speak their mind.”
The logo for the website partly responsible for my blueberry milkshake binge flashed on the screen, and I gritted my teeth at the sight of the Snark Junkies dog—a smirking Siberian husky.
Dear God, Amanda Truthslayer was everywhere today.
Glaring at the reporter as she praised Bradbury and his company, I made a mental note of the address on the building behind her. I’d mentioned going to the website’s headquarters before, but Barb had shot down the idea. She’d told me to leave the confrontation to her lawyers, but they weren’t exactly doing a great job getting through to Bradbury. At this point, I couldn’t see things getting any worse, so what did I have to lose by going to see him in person about Amanda and her posts? And besides, the fact the TV was tuned to a story about Snark Junkies was a sign I couldn’t ignore.
Waving to catch Gabby’s attention, I motioned her over.
“Just a sec,” she mouthed. While I waited for her to come to my table, I built myself up about confronting Bradbury. Regardless of whether or not my complaints bothered him, if his “content provider” could speak her mind, so could I.
Stopping next to my booth, Gabby grinned. “Did you change your mind about the fried pickles?”
“Can I get the check, please?” I pointed to my shake. “And this in a to-go cup?” Glancing up at the Bradbury Enterprises employee being interviewed on screen, I stiffened my spine as she gushed about how awesome the company was. Yeah, awesome my ass. “I have an errand to run before I head back to the office.”
Chapter Two
When the receptionist informed me that Max was out of the office for the rest of the day, I refused to lose my confidence. Determined to meet the man behind the rude website face-to-face, I left my condo earlier than usual the next morning and returned to the corporate park that housed Bradbury Enterprises. After the doorman let me pass, I stood in the corner of the elevator, breathing unevenly as I counted the floors to Max Bradbury’s office.
One. Had I been this nervous yesterday? Two. Three. No, I hadn’t been, but what if he’s not here again? Or what if he just refuses to see me. Four. Not even twenty-four hours ago, the receptionist had looked at me like I was a shoe-in for the next Idiocracy movie when I had asked to see the CEO without an appointment. Five. If Barb found out I had visited Bradbury, she’d freak out. Six. Maybe, just maybe, I should take the elevator back down after it stopped.
I stared at my reflection in the gleaming doors. In spite of my professional exterior—a black pea coat over a crisp tucked-in blouse and pinstripe pencil skirt, black pumps, and my simple but effective auburn up-do—the confidence I’d shown yesterday wavered. My hazel eyes were unsure, nervous.
Seven.
Eight.
Clenching my hands into fists, I released a deflated breath as the doors shuddered open. I crept from the corner and hovered my finger over the first floor button to take me back to the lobby. Just before I pushed it, the bottle blond receptionist from yesterday afternoon glanced up from her cherry red, U-shaped desk, simpered at me, and then went back to her call.
You know what, screw leaving, I thought.
I forced myself into the lobby of the CEO’s personal suite—which was surprisingly bright and cheery considering the nature of his website. The bold shades of red, yellow, green, and blue reminded me of the candy-coated color scheme of one of Bradbury Enterprises’ oldest and most popular games—which, to my embarrassment, I had on my phone and found myself playing in moments of extreme boredom.
Stopping at the receptionist desk, I waited for her to finish her call, wringing my hands together so I wouldn’t gnaw anxiously on my nails. My focus drifted to the giant TV on the wall behind her. A trailer was playing, advertising the company’s newest mobile game—some epic fantasy that looked like a mishmash of World of Warcraft and Halo. A gun-toting elf pranced onto the screen, and I wrinkled my nose.
Geez, no wonder Bradbury had decided to launch the Snark Junkies website.
His games were ... well, his newest games looked just plain shitty.
“Hello,” the receptionist said loudly. Dragging my stare from the trailer, I took in her arched eyebrows and thinned lips. She tapped her fingernails on the glossy red surface of her desk. “Are you here to see Mr. Bradbury again?” I nodded, and she looked at her laptop screen before giving me a skeptical smile. “Do you actually have an appointment this time?”
“No, but I’m hoping that he can fit me in.” Ah, there it was. The look that told me she thought I was an idiot. I released a heavy sigh and tilted my head to look at the glass nameplate on her desk. “Look, Deana, my name is Avery Collins, and I work for a local paper. I just need to speak to him for five minutes. I have an issue that I need sorted out—I swear it won’t take long.”
Deana had stared at me for a few seconds before realization dawned and her eyes widened. “Ohhh, you’re that girl!” A grin the size of Texas spread across her face. I blinked. Did I even want to know what had been said about that girl—about me—in the Bradbury Enterprises offices? “Yes, I’m sure you would like to talk to him. I’ll see if he’s available.”
“Thanks, I appreciate it.”
She typed something then closed her laptop. “You’re welcome to wait...” Her voice trailed off, but I followed her hand as she gestured to the adjoining waiting room.
“Great!” I replied with lackluster enthusiasm.
“Coffee and donuts are on the counter; feel free to help yourself,” she called after me. I barely made it into the next room before I heard Deana say in a hushed voice, “Caitlin? Stop flirting with the sexy mail guy and listen to this! You will never guess who just stepped off the elevator and asked to see—”
Ugh. Was she serious with that crap?
I skulked over to the counter and made a cup of coffee, reluctantly bypassing the glazed donuts that seemed to be pleading with me from their pink and white box. Sitting on one of the most uncomfortable seats I’ve ever sat on—seriously, a jagged rock would have been more enjoyable than the blue chair that looked like it was a prop from Star Trek—I rolled my eyes at the sight of the receptionist snickering into the phone.
“Did you see the one from the other day?” she whispered. “I about pissed myself at the mashed potatoes bit!”
Worst. Admin. Ever.
Ears burning, I glared at her darkly, but she must not have felt the radioactive heat from my eyes because she kept talking. About me. I sighed, took a sip of my coffee, and grabbed a magazine from the pile on the table beside my chair—the latest edition of Modern Gamer. I leafed through the magazine quickly, stopping every few pages if a beautifully illustrated game snagged my interest.
I’d played video games only a handful of times in my life—Super Mario Brothers with the twins who grew up next door to me in North Dakota and later, one of the many Call of Duty games to impress a guy I dated in college (I sucked at it and kept getting knifed from behind by some middle school kids from Germany). The Wii my parents had gotten me for Christmas a couple of years ago was sadly neglected and used solely for streaming Netflix and YouTube.
When I heard the elevator doors open, I glanced up from browsing through an article about an upcoming role-playing game, and then nearly dropped my coffee on my lap as the sexiest man I’d ever seen stepped into the lobby. Dressed casually in motorcycle boots, a heather blue tee, and jeans, he was at least six feet tall and toned. No, not just toned.
Ripped.
His physique reminded me of a professional soccer player’s—long and lean with just the right amount of muscle showing through his short-sleeve shirt—and his face brought to mind the lead from some superhero show my best friend was forever gushing about. I lifted my eyes higher to his flawless bronze complexion, disheveled brown hair, and light-colored eyes that crinkled at the corners when he grinned at the receptionist.
Were they blue? Or green? I was too far away to tell, and craning my neck did nothing but make my shoulders hurt, but I wanted to know.
He stopped at the receptionist’s desk and handed her several large envelopes. Wanting to get a better look, I got up to throw my coffee cup in the bright red trash can by the waiting room entrance. They were talking in low voices—and the receptionist was busy batting her eyelashes and chewing on her bottom lip—so I took advantage of the opportunity and openly ogled him.
Hey, stop judging. You would’ve stared, too.
Was he the sexy mail guy Deana had told Caitlin to stop flirting with? If that were the case, I would’ve never answered the phone, much less listened to the receptionist drone on about Amanda Truthslayer’s bitchy blog post. I started to look away but then my eyes lowered to his butt.
Jesus.
The man was not only ripped and gorgeous, but he had an ass that made me and my pitiful buns of flatness jealous. I silently thanked the designer who had made his jeans.
Deciding it was probably best to quit while I was ahead, I dropped the empty coffee cup in the trash can. The sound made him freeze and, instinctively, so did I. He turned away from the receptionist slowly until he was staring right at me.
Blue.
I swallowed hard.
His eyes were blue. Not just any blue, but midnight—a stormy shade that seemed even more startling thanks to his thick, dark lashes. My best friend Tessa had always said I was a sucker for eyes, and this guy was no exception. If anything, he exemplified why I was drawn to a man’s eyes.
This one’s gaze, everything about him, was paralyzing.
Deana cleared her throat loudly, ruining the moment. She shot me a nasty look as he turned back around to face her.
Mr. CEO really knew how to pick them.
With the guy’s attention on her again, I returned to my seat and pretended that Modern Gamer was as captivating as the newest issue of Cosmopolitan. I didn’t dare look up for fear of embarrassing myself, but when the receptionist called my name a couple of minutes later, I was disappointed to see that he was gone.
The receptionist smirked as I approached her desk. “Mr. Bradbury’s office is the last door on the right.” She turned slightly, looking down the long hallway behind her desk. Clasping her hands together, she faced me with an arched eyebrow. “Good luck.”
About a million snippy retorts streamed through my head, but I held them all back as I walked toward Bradbury’s office. Since the door was wide open, I stepped inside. I briefly took in the office, which echoed the same theme as the rest of the floor. Bold colors, a big blue desk fit for a king with not one or two but three computers on it, and floor-to-ceiling windows with a view of the other office buildings situated around the business park.
The office was also empty.
“Mr. Bradbury?” I tiptoed to the center of the room, standing beneath a gigantic GAMER fluorescent sign that hung from the ceiling. Frowning, I crossed my arms over my chest and a thought struck me. Had the receptionist sent me back here just so she could laugh at me a little more? Hell, was Bradbury even coming into the office today?
The sound of someone clearing their throat behind me cut through my thoughts like a knife. I turned around, and my pulse raced. Leaning a broad shoulder against the doorframe, the sexy guy from the receptionist’s desk stared back at me. “Can I help you?”
“What are you doing back here?” I asked. He lifted an eyebrow, crossed his shiver-inducing arms over his chest, and grinned broadly. When he simply stared at me, I felt like my heart dropped to the pit of my stomach. “Oh my God, you’re Max Bradbury.”
“In the flesh.” He approached me, turning my breath to puny little puffs at the scent of his cologne. He smelled good—fresh, subtle, and one hundred percent male. Whatever scent he’d rolled that insanely good-looking body around in, I wanted it all over my pillow and sheets and everywhere else. He stopped right in front of me, and I lifted my chin to stare up at him. “I have a meeting at ten, so let’s make this quick.”
I couldn’t imagine the kind of meeting that would allow motorcycle boots and jeans, but hell, he was the boss. I nodded and held out my hand. “I’m Avery Collins. I work with—”
“The Azalea Post.” He flicked those dark blue eyes down at my outstretched fingers and then shoved his own hands into the front pockets of those epic jeans. Jerk. “I know exactly who you are. What I don’t know is what you need.”
I swallowed the lump in my throat. “I wanted to discuss one of the columns on your Snark Junkies website.”
He rocked back, cocking his head to the side and giving me an excellent view of his smooth, broad chin. I gulped at his amused expression. “And by discuss, you mean you’re going to complain about one of our most popular content providers? You’re going to ask me to remove Amanda from my site because she hurt your feelings?”
I jabbed my tongue into my cheek. “I wouldn’t exactly say she hurt my feelings—just plagiarized my hard work.” Crossing my arms over my chest, I tilted my own head to one side. “But yes, I guess I am complaining.”
“Amanda published your column to our site and claimed it was her work?”
“No, but—”
He shook his head. “Not even once?”
“No, Mr. Bradbury, but she—”
“So this isn’t about plagiarism but about what I first suggested.” He smirked. “She hurt your feelings by shitting on your fairy tale and now you want to cry about it.”
My mouth fell open. What the hell was the matter with this guy? “Excuse me?” I raged. He was so gorgeous that I should have known he’d be an absolute ass—I mean, the fact he started a website that was like Buzzfeed on a marathon bender should have been some inclination that Max Bradbury wasn’t exactly Prince Charming. “I’m not crying about anything, thank you very much. I’m trying to have an adult conversation.”
“Really?” He licked his lips. Oh God, he licked his lips. How was it possible that such a full, sexy mouth could spew so much sarcasm? I quickly jerked my focus back up to his deep blue eyes, but it was too late. The shit-eating grin that had taken over his strong features told me that he knew I was checking him out.
“An adult conversation would’ve been you keeping your ass behind your desk and dealing with my content provider by modifying your own work. Not storming into my office and pointing fingers, expecting me to act as a guidance counselor. I’m not, Ms. Collins.”
“She’s ruining my career,” I said desperately through gritted teeth, hugging my arms more tightly around myself. “I’m sure the website is just some side project for you, but how would you feel if some game company did this to you? I’m sure you’d be furious.”
He shrugged. “Happens every day. So, we adapt.”
“By what? Creating games with AK-47 carrying elves?”
Snorting, he walked around me, the side of his body brushing mine. A jolt of energy pulsed through my body, and I swallowed the gasp that followed. “There’s a complaint box on the website. You’ll find it under the little link that says contact us,” he said. Pushing the brief moment of electricity from my mind, I whipped around to stare at him.
“A complaint box,” I repeated in a monotone voice.
Stepping behind his desk, he nodded and opened the laptop closest to him. “Someone will respond within forty-eight hours.” He focused his attention on the screen, and my chest burned at his calculated dismissal. “Have a good day, Ms. Collins, and thanks for visiting us here at Bradbury Enterprises.”
-End Sample-
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