I typically packed up a fruit yogurt for the old man instead of the high cholesterol pastry he always insisted on, but today, I thought better of further pissing off the man that signed my paychecks. I bagged the pastry and took the espresso Nic handed me. But Frankie already started heading to his office, which meant… I had to follow him.
I groaned. “I’ll see you in a bit.”
She winked at me and I slipped out from behind the bar.
Frankie was one of my favorite people at the magazine. He was the head of building operations and one of the grumpiest customers we had. He first noticed my artwork when he saw my sketches on the blackboard featuring the daily specials. I started naming Nic’s concoctions with sports references and a sketch to go along with it. Today was Touchdown Tuesday, a triple shot espresso poured over a spoonful of sugar, a dash of cinnamon and topped off with a hefty scoop of foam.
A few weeks ago, Frankie found out how I really ended up working at the café and it had become his personal mission to get my work noticed—despite the sexist male club of illustrators. He insisted it was the only way to get rid of me, but I knew the discrimination against female employees in certain departments upstairs bothered the old man.
Every time I had something new I wanted to submit, I gave it to Frankie and he would pass it to the editors for me in a way that I couldn’t. And every time, it was denied.
Frankie asked me to consider submitting something as “Anonymous” and if it was featured, I’d have all the proof I needed that my work was good enough to work with the big boys.
I didn’t love the plan, in fact I hated it and it was a hard no from me. When I spoke to dad about it, he agreed with Frankie. “You could either sit and wait for opportunity to come knocking or go get it one way or another.”
But I held my own. “No. One day, something will be exactly what they want. And they’ll publish it. And hire me,” I had said.
“You’re extra…spirited today,” Frankie said when we reached his office. Circling his desk, he pushed aside the mail set in front of him. “What’s going on? Rough weekend?”
I shook my head and set down his coffee and claw. “Chipper as a woodpecker, Frankie.”
He grunted in response but thankfully didn’t push it. It had been two days since Troy dissed me once again and I was highly bothered by it. Humiliated once again and I had no one to blame but myself for getting involved with him.
Even if it was for the sake of crossing him off my list.
“Harper, you don’t know that man. He obviously works somewhere in the building, eighty percent of which is Brooklyn Lines. What if he’s… your future boss or something?”
“It’s not like I threw it at him.” I hated that the man had a point. I was, after all, here on a mission and needed to get it together. “Yeah, okay, I’ll chill out.”
He leaned back in his chair and released an exasperated breath. “You got anything new?”
I hesitated—because I wasn’t sure I should show anyone the sketch from Sunday’s practice. But it was too good not to share. I swiped my phone out of my back denim pocket and pulled up the last image in my gallery of my latest sketch. “Just this from over the weekend.”
His brows jumped. “What’s this?”
“Blades practice.”
His eyes shot to mine. “How’d you get it?”
I blinked, my throat tightening at his innocent question. How would one explain my stalking Troy Hartman at Finnegan’s on Saturday night and then sneaking my way in to practice to apologize? “I used my imagination.”
Frankie cocked his head to go with his incredulous brow lift. “It’s very good.”
I shrugged.
“Want me to send it in?”
I hesitated. Because the sketch was a little too detailed to be made up and I wasn’t even supposed to be there.
It was Troy Hartman centered, his jersey number, position and chiseled features all etched out in explicit detail while the rest were merely scene fillers in the background. I hadn’t even realized the depth of it until I looked at it again. Why was I so focused on a man I despised?
There was no question, this certainly couldn’t get out. “No. I mean, probably not a good idea. It—it needs work anyway.” I slid my phone away and turned as he leaned back in his chair watching me with amusement. “Gotta run, boss.”
“Stay perky,” he called before I closed his door.
Worst. Tuesday. Ever.
By five o’clock I was ready to throw in the towel, tell Nic I wasn’t feeling well and if she could cover the last hour on her own. I couldn’t get Troy and every intoxicating feature out of my mind. Why was he getting to me so much? I didn’t remember him ever having this much effect on me.
