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May 20, 2005

Writer’s retreat

Alesia, packing again

I'm leaving for Mendocino tomorrow for 9 whole days for a writers' retreat. I've never done this before, and I'm really looking forward to a week of discussing writing and working (and, let's admit it, no laundry!). In fact, the plan is to have my next proposal finished by the time I return. I have traveled more this year than in any year in my memory, and the part I hate the most is packing. [Look here for a question on what kind of packer you are!]

So, since I’m WAY too busy to blog, I’m going to post a sneak peek from my July book, NICE GIRLS FINISH FIRST. Hope you have fun with Kirby and a fab weekend!!

Hugs,
Alesia

Kirby – from NICE GIRLS FINISH FIRST,
copyright Alesia Holliday, Berkley Sensation (July 5, 2005)

Halfway through another twelve-hour day (but at least I’ll finally meet little Lauren this evening; I’m first-date nervous about that, trust me), Banning drops by my office.
Normally, I’d be totally up for a view of his lovely self, but . . .

. . . the bet has changed the way I look at him. For example, I never really noticed before that his eyes are too close together. Plus, all that thick hair is probably the kind that will bald prematurely. I never liked bald guys.

Euwwww. Don’t even get me started on the whole comb over issue.

He looks exactly like Hugh Jackman, my so-not-in-denial libido says.

Sighing, I look up at Hugh . . . er, Banning. I’m fairly sure that my head may explode into tiny pieces if I have to hear one more time this week about how I’m not nice enough. I’ve spent the past four hours trying to figure out how my figures are wrong. Either everything I learned in school suddenly vanished from my brain cells, or those numbers are right.

“Green. Your numbers are right.”

Oh-kay. People so have to quit doing that to me. Am I psychically projecting my thoughts? First Brianna, with ‘hopeless,’ and ‘door,’ and now Banning, with ‘numbers are right.’ Maybe I’m some kind of ESP mutant.

“Hello? Earth to Kirby? Did you hear me?” He smiles and props a shoulder against my doorway. “Oh, I get it. You’re waiting for my formal apology. Well, you deserve it. You were right, and I was wrong. I spent all night backtracking the figures to where the discrepancy came up, and it turns out the head of the team you fired had been feeding me the wrong numbers for months.”

He laughs, but it’s not a happy laugh. “I was wondering why our marketing figures were approximating the national debt of a small country. I should have checked into it a long time ago. Good job.”

I am, whether anybody will ever believe it of me or not, speechless. Luckily, it doesn’t last long. But discretion is probably the better part of valuing my job. “Thanks for letting me know. I’ve been tearing my hair out trying to figure out where I went wrong.”

I look down at my desk, battling the evil urge to do the happy dance all over my office, flinging budget papers wildly about. Gloating is so unprofessional.
Probably not nice, either.

“Is that all you’re going to say?” he asks, staring at me with a look of ‘this is so not the Kirby we all know and love’ on his face. (All right, all right, I may be ad-libbing the ‘and love’ part of that.)

I smile gently. “Was there something else you needed?”

He shakes his head, still looking confused. Am I really that prone to gloating? Um, oops.

He turns to leave, then stops and looks back. “How about lunch?”

Whoa. Where did that come from? Are we suddenly going to go back to the ‘just colleagues who are starting to be friends and might, in fact, think each other is a hottie’ phase of our relationship? As opposed to the ‘you’re a hateful bitch who couldn’t be nice to save her own ass, vacation, or – in fact – job’ phase?

I must have a weird expression on my face, because he shrugs. “If you’re busy, that’s fine. I thought we’d discuss your plans for coverage while you’re in Italy.”

“Well, I have to – wait! You just said for while I’m in Italy. You believe I’m going to win your bet, don’t you? Ah HA!” I lean back in my chair, cross my arms over my chest, and smile hugely. “I can’t believe you’re putting me through all this, when you know I’m--”

“I meant if. If you go to Italy.” But his lips are twitching at the corners when he says it, so I consider it a moral victory.

As I enjoy the truly lovely sight of his firm butt walking away from me, it occurs to me that I should have agreed to lunch. Maybe we could get this colleague slash friend slash potential we’re-two-consenting-adults-so-where’s-the-harm thing going?

Yummy. Except . . . No. No dating the boss. Just a professional, business-like lunch.

I glance at my watch, gauging how long it will take for him to reach his office, so I can call and accept the lunch date, then look up to see Brianna hovering at my door.

She shifts from one foot to the other, biting her lip a little. “Kirby, um, would it be possible for us, ah, I mean, are you free for lunch?”

I seriously have to look into this ESP thing. The Psychic Hotline: Not just a hoax, but maybe a new career direction?

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Posted by Alesia at 8:51 AM