Her Intern / Double Dare You. Anne Marsh
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up Katie, Calla’s receptionist.
As Nellie eases out to say hello to me, Devlin nods at Katie. Not a smile, nothing pleasant, just a brusque tip of his gorgeous head that makes parts of me long to grab him by that stupid tie and yank his head down to mine. I should look away but I can’t. I blame the way his shoulders stretch his dark suit jacket, framing all those delicious muscles. It’s too bad the man ever has to open his mouth. If he could just work and glower in silence, seen but not heard, he’d be perfect. If he could do that with a Scottish accent and a tartan, I’d come on the spot.
Katie clearly agrees with me about the pretty boy factor. She stares at Devlin King, her mouth working like a fish. I can practically hear the stunned pop, pop, pop from my hiding place as she drinks in our intern’s brand of hotness. His voice rumbles, low, rough, way too sexy. I can’t catch the words, but Katie beams as if he’s actually, finally said something nice. Finally, our sexy troll steps out into the San Francisco sunshine and is gone.
No, thank you. No excitement. Definitely don’t let the door hit your mighty fine ass on the way out.
That man is trouble, and not just because we’re an all-girl team and he’s the lone slice of chocolate cake. Diversity is good. A roomful of people who think the same way does not solve coding problems. But because Calla is on the edge, one nudge in the wrong direction will also send us careening to our doom. After getting turned down by the last venture capital firm I approached for financial backing, we’ve burned through our remaining operating capital and yet electricity and flushing toilets remain nonnegotiable items for my team members. I not only need to launch soon, but I need the launch to be a success. It would be even better if someone left a sack of large-denomination bills on our doorstep. Wishful thinking. I’m a master.
A test version of Calla’s website is up and operational in a sandbox, I remind myself. We’ve just finished integrating our new e-commerce platform. That platform is a thing of beauty, although I’m also secretly grateful I didn’t have to tell anyone how I obtained it. My small budget inspired an equal measure of creativity and embarrassing desperation.
Nellie whines, alerting me to incoming humans. I mentally flush my thoughts of Dev—mooning over my much younger intern is crazy—and find myself face-to-face with Valerie. Valerie is our director of international marketing. At twenty-three, she has a degree from UC Berkeley, pink hair and glossy pink lips that match the hair. She was an “influencer” before we landed her, which means she posted carefully curated content to Instagram and other social media. Her brand, she’d informed me during our interview, was Start-Up Chic and she makes more money documenting the start-up lifestyle than she does from Calla’s actual paychecks. I live in terror that she’ll abandon us, but so far, so good.
She leans down to pat Nellie on the head. Nellie flinches. “Who was that and why are we hiding in the kitchen?”
“I’m caffeinating, not hiding.” To back up my claim, I beeline toward the coffee bar, almost tripping over Nellie, who believes my energy level means we’re hunting doggie treats. Ugh. All ten of Calla’s team members are serious caffeine addicts, but none of us has a Martha Stewart–esque penchant for organizing or cleaning. The coffee bar is a sticky collection of used cups, spilled sugar and empty coffee pods. I made a note on my phone to Google proper intern responsibilities—maybe he can take over coffee duties.
Val points to the front door. “Our guest was gorgeous. Now tell me he’s smart. And ours.”
“He’s definitely smart. He’s got a huge brain. He has the personality of a troll.” Darn it. Out of coffee pods. I sift through the cupboard, searching for instant coffee, and discover an empty box. “I’m naming him Director of All Things Coffee.”
“Uh-huh.” Val nudges me enthusiastically. She’s a hugger, too, whereas my personal space requirements are more generous. “Bet he’s got a huge something else, too.”
I make the buzzer sound. “Inappropriate, Val. Would you want your future teammates discussing your body the minute you walked out the door?”
Pot. Kettle.
“Sorry.” She pulls a face. “You’re right. Not here.”
I look at her apologetically, but I know she understands. Lusting after the summer intern falls into the category of Shit You Do Not Stir. Above all, it’s wrong. Whether you’re Team Vagina or Team Penis (or prefer not to state your allegiance), you should be able to come to work without your coworkers imagining you naked and performing sex acts. And second and more practically, not only is everyone working all out to launch Calla in two months, but we simply can’t afford the drama and expense of a workplace harassment lawsuit.
I shut the cupboard door and toss the empty box into the recycling. “Come with me to the coffee shop?”
Val nods enthusiastically, which experience has shown is her default factory setting. She’s enthusiastic about everything. When we step outside, my head starts swiveling. I tell myself I’m just soaking in the sunshine. It’s a balmy seventy-two degrees and the morning fog has already burned off. Normally, I’d take a few centering breaths and appreciate being outside, but instead I scour my surroundings. For him.
Fortunately, Val doesn’t notice. Instead, she enthusiastically launches into conversation. “Do you have weekend plans?”
Right. It’s Friday, the day of the week normal people get excited about because they actually intend to leave the house. On purpose. I personally prefer hiding inside where there are fewer people. After I finish my monster to-do list, I have a hot date with a new book and takeout. And Nellie. Nellie and I are practically an old married couple. I tie her leash to the bench outside the coffee shop and plunge through the doors. There are thirty-two people here and the sound wave deafens me.
“No plans,” I roar, stepping up to the counter and placing my order. Don’t feel sorry for the introvert, folks. That’s how she likes it.
“No hot date?” Val examines the muffins on offer. Smart. It’s unlikely we have time for lunch and I’ve eaten my way through the box of tasteless granola bars stashed in my desk. I pull out my phone and make order snacks the two hundred and forty-seventh item on my to-do list. “When’s the last time you went out?”
I tap my calendar. Dates are violet as pink feels clichéd—and violet is as rare on my calendar as unicorns are in my life. Which is A-okay with me. My crowded schedule has no room for hearts and true love.
Val snorts. “If you have to check your calendar, it’s been too long.”
“Three hundred sixty-one days.” Precision is important.
Val digests my disturbingly long period of celibacy as the baristas bellow out names, the space-age coffee maker whoosh-whirs, and a dozen customers chat each other up and make business calls at the top of their lungs.
“You need to get out more,” she says finally. “There are apps for that.”
“Hello? Married to the firm?” I grab my chai latte off the counter and head outside. Nellie barks enthusiastically. She loves coffee dates, even if she anxious-pees if I take her inside. Popping the lid off my cup, I pour her a taste. Uh-oh. Whatever’s in this cup isn’t chai latte. Once again, I’ve stolen someone else’s drink.
I debate slinking back inside and buying—I rotate the cup until I spot the owner’s name underneath my pinkie—Ross a new drink. It’s too much work, though. Plus, if he really likes steamed coconut milk, we’ll never work out. I opt for fleeing back toward Calla, Nellie trotting alongside me, licking her chops.
Val is right behind me. “Sex is like flossing. You should do it once a day, twice a day is better, and if you haven’t done it, you lie and say you did anyhow.”
I roll my eyes. “Who has time to do it twice a day?”
My brain helpfully supplies an image of Dev. He likely has both the time and the stamina to do it twice a day. Probably twice an hour. Bad brain. Not only is he much, much younger than me, but