The Play Mate (Roommates, #2)

Cullen swallowed, turning toward me. “He’s the head of the regional department store chain out of Boston we’re hoping to land. Why?”

My stomach bottomed out, and the coffee I’d consumed might as well have been battery acid for how sick I suddenly felt.

“I accidentally sent him an e-mail meant for Maggie.”

“Shit, Evie. How did that happen?”

I released a slow exhale. The beginnings of a splitting headache set in. I’d been at work a mere thirty minutes and I’d already fucked up. I blamed Smith’s presence-he had me agitated, but it wasn’t like I could tell Cullen that.

“I started typing in M-A, and then I hit Enter. Maggie’s name normally auto-populates. I don’t even have this Mack person’s e-mail address. I don’t understand.”

Cullen swore under his breath, and Smith’s somber expression looked like he felt sorry for me.

“You’re connected to the network, Evie,” Cullen said. “You have access to all the clients and contacts now.” He released a sigh through his nose, his jaw tense.

“Right. I’m sorry. It won’t happen again.”

“What was in the e-mail?” Cullen asked, his expression darkening.

“Just our new logo . . . and some other stuff.” I looked down at my keyboard, my mood plummeting even further.

Smith cleared his throat. “It’s first-day nerves. A simple mistake that anyone could have made. I’m sure it’s nothing to worry about. Don’t sweat it, Evie.”Exclusive © content by N(ô)ve/l/Drama.Org.

I released the breath I was holding.

Cullen nodded. “Don’t put too much pressure on yourself; it’s day one. You’ll learn the ropes soon enough.”

I tried to smile and took another sip of my coffee. At least he didn’t suspect that the hulking six-foot-something man beside us was the real reason for my nerves.

• • •

Somehow, I survived my first day. After my disastrous morning, I kept my head down and my eyes on my screen, speaking only in one-word responses to Smith and Cullen, afraid I would somehow out myself.

Smith’s playful mood from Paris had evaporated, and he’d spent the day brooding and despondent. I wasn’t cut out for this level of torture, which made me extremely thankful when I saw Maggie enter the bar after work.

“Thank God you’re here,” I mumbled, curling my fingers around the stem of my wineglass.

Maggie flashed me a gloomy frown. “Hey, sweetie. You’re going to need something stronger than that.” She tipped her chin toward my glass of merlot.

I shrugged. It didn’t matter. Alcohol wasn’t going to solve this.

I’d told Maggie the entire sordid tale when I got back from Paris. To her credit, she’d only laughed once at my ridiculous plan to break into Smith’s hotel room, and then winced when I told her how he’d pulled away and practically kicked me out as soon as he realized it was me. Since then, she’d offered sympathetic support and gentle encouragement.

Her stance? It was time to move on. And didn’t I know it. I just wished there was a way to erase the past. What I needed was a time machine.

“It was torturous. He’s sitting so close that I can smell his cologne. And he looks at me like he feels bad for me.”

Maggie nodded. “That’s exactly why I have the perfect new plan for you.”

“I’m all ears,” I said, then drained the last of my wine and signaled the bartender for another glass.

“The best way to get over someone is to get under someone else.”

Emboldened by the alcohol, we created a new plan-an online dating profile that Maggie typed up for me on my phone.

“Ms. Fifty Shades of Sexy seeks lovable Christian Grey type for cuddling, misadventure, and more.”

I snatched my phone back from her. “You can’t write that.”

She smiled like the cat who’d eaten the canary. “Oops. Too late.”

By the time we’d polished off a bottle of wine and eaten a few tacos apiece from a food truck out front, I felt immensely better. On the cab ride home, anything seemed possible.

Maybe I wouldn’t die a pathetic spinster with a cobwebbed vagina after all. I had a new plan, one that had nothing to do with Smith Hamilton. It didn’t matter that I’d been in love with him half my life . . . it was more than past time to move on.

My failed attempt at seducing him was like a flashing neon sign from God to move on. Smith who?

Tomorrow was a new day.