Men didn’t want to hear that putting the toilet seat down was now considered nonnegotiable, any more than women wanted to know that yes, he does look at your tits first, and no, he probably doesn’t actually think you have “great eyes.”
However, Jake recognized the look on Alex Cassidy’s face. There was no way he was going to be talked out of his play-nice-and-write-a-joint-article-with-a-woman idea.
Jake switched tactics. “Cole should do it.”
“Cole Sharpe doesn’t even work here.”
Jake shrugged. “Have you told him that?”
Cassidy let out a sigh of frustration “I mean he’s not a full-time employee. He’s a sportswriter we have on contract from time to time because our Health and Fitness department has more turnover than a rotisserie chicken.”
Jake clicked his pen in triumph as though it had been decided. “See? Sportswriter. Women love that shit. Put him on a few fake dates with one of Camille’s man-eaters.”
Cassidy sat unmoving, holding Jake’s gaze in what they both recognized as a pissing contest.
“Bill told me you want the Travel gig,” Cassidy said, finally breaking the tense silence.
Jake went on high alert. Now they were getting somewhere. “I do.”
“Bill said you’d be great at it.”
“Then why the hell didn’t Bill make it official before he left?”
“We talked about it. Decided it would be fair if I had the chance to make that assessment for myself. Given your record.”
Jake felt tingling in the back of this hands—a sure sign his temper was stirring. “What record is that? The one that says that my name is the most recognized of anyone associated with the Oxford brand? The record that indicates I’ve brought in more advertising through a few happy hours than half the people on the sales team? That record?”
Cassidy leaned down slightly to pull something out of a side drawer. How much shit did this guy have hiding behind his desk?
His boss slapped a newspaper in front of him, and Jake carefully hid his wince. Oh. That record.
“Yeah. That record,” Cassidy said, reading his thoughts loud and clear.
“Does it make a difference if I say that this one isn’t true?” Jake asked, sliding the paper back across the desk.
“So Miss New York’s fiancé didn’t chase you out of her apartment with nothing but a half-empty bottle of bourbon to cover your balls?”
“A key detail was missing,” Jake said, pushing the paper back across the desk.
“What detail was that? They got the type of whisky wrong?”
“I didn’t know she was engaged,” Jake said quietly. “Didn’t even know she was involved with someone.”
Normally he didn’t make much of an effort to defend his reputation as a wild bachelor, but this wasn’t just about pride. This was about his job. And if the crap stories the scandal sheets liked to publish were the only thing standing between him and the Travel spot, he’d be glad to set the record straight.
When Christine Alverson had come on to him in the bar, all shiny red hair and passionate about the nonprofit she was starting for better technology in the schools of rough neighborhoods, he’d been blissfully unaware of the fiancé who worked out of San Francisco four days a week.
And when he’d found out, he’d been good and pissed. Just because Jake didn’t have any visions of being a husband didn’t mean he didn’t have plenty of respect for the institution of marriage. His parents were happily married, as was one of his sisters.
The thought of anyone stepping out on someone they’d pledged their life to …
Well, maybe Jake wasn’t quite as tolerant as he thought. Not when it came down to things like loyalty and fucking common decency.
Cassidy continued to study him. “Is it true that you never turn in your stories before four o’clock on the day they’re due?”
“Yes.”
Cassidy winced. “Christ, you didn’t think to lie to me on that one?”
“It’s also true that I’ve never missed a deadline. Never.”
“You’re still a wild card. With this Travel gig, I’d go months without seeing you. Maybe longer. You’ll be on different time zones, bedding women on all continents. You’ll have to manage yourself, and frankly, I’m not sure you’re up to it.”
“Now hold on just a second,” Jake said, his temper hitching up another notch. “You’ve been behind that desk for all of a month. I’ve been doing this for years. If anyone should do the proving—”
“Hear me out,” Cassidy interrupted. “I respect Bill’s opinion, but I deserve a chance to form one of my own. One that doesn’t come from the man who thinks you shit gold, one that doesn’t come from the tabloids, and one that doesn’t come from the harem of women you’ve slept with.”