Professor Feelgood, Page 2

  “Uh huh. You realize having a checklist for guys isn’t realistic, right?”

  “It’s not a checklist.” I ignore her scoffing laugh. “It’s a list of guidelines. General characteristics that help me refine my search for true love.”

  “No, little sister, it’s a list of specific characteristics you use on every guy you date. If they dare deviate from your must-haves, you dump them.”

  “Not true.”

  “Oh, really? Let’s review, shall we?” She clears her throat. “Your dream man must have a college degree, be employed and at least moderately successful, love kids, like Aaron Sorkin dramas––”

  “That one’s a soft limit.”

  “––be romantic, have great taste, say all the consonants in the words ‘recognize’, ‘entertainment’, and ‘frustrated’––”

  “Excuse me for liking diction.”

  “He must never use the word ‘drug’ as a verb instead of a noun——”

  I throw up my hands. “‘Dragged’ is the past-tense verb! It’s not that hard.”

  “And every time you’ve dated a guy long enough for your pretty rose-colored glasses to smudge, you go into a weird period of denial, because you’re too proud to admit that you’re about to torpedo yet another decent guy. You’re at that point with Phillipe now, right?”

  I fake-laugh for a few moments before winding down like a tiny female air-raid siren. “Oh, Eden. My poor deluded sister. You couldn’t be more wrong.”

  Of course, she’s mostly right. Damn her for knowing me so well.

  I met a guy in Paris recently and had the type of whirlwind romance I’d always dreamed about. But even though I adore him and have an incredible time when we’re together, the issue I always have with my boyfriends is rearing its ugly head, and I can’t figure out how to fix it. Mind you, it’ll be a dry day in Atlantis before I admit that to my smartass sister.

  “Let talk about something else,” I say, as I head to the break room to brew some fresh coffee. “Anything else.” I hear a noise and realize Eden is making coffee, too. Great minds, and all that.

  “But seriously,” she says. “You have to break this cycle, Ash. It’s getting ridiculous. Tell me again why you broke up with the guy before this one? That Gary person.”

  “You know why.” I shove a crisp filter into the machine and fill it with coffee.

  “You claimed he was too clingy.”

  “Exactly,” I say, while pouring in the water. “Never mind that he considered our Jersey/Brooklyn living situation a ‘long distance relationship’, but calling me ten times a day ‘just to hear my voice’? No thank you.”

  “Uh huh. And the guy before him … John? He wasn’t clingy enough, right?”

  “Yeah. So?” The machine coughs and splutters as the steaming coffee dribbles into the pot.

  “And further down your list of rejects there was Pablo – too short; Damien - too tall; Bartholomew - too blond.”

  “You know why I can’t do blond guys”

  “And then there was poor perfect Peter who you dumped because he manscaped.”

  I grab a clean mug from the cupboard and scoop four sugars into it. “Hey, you didn’t have to look at his perfect eyebrows all the time. It was off-putting how arched they were. And he had zero hair below his waist. I mean, come on. I don’t mind guys keeping it tidy down there, but he was totally smooth. I tried to get past it, but it was like dating a Ken doll.”

  I can practically hear Eden’s eye-roll. “Have you ever considered that maybe the reason you can’t maintain a long-term relationship is because you don’t really want one?”

  I give her an extra-loud eye-roll in return. “Yes, of course, dear sister. That’s definitely my motivation for spending time with all these men. To never have a loving, fulfilling relationship and die alone.” I don’t mention the real reason I dumped all those men. It’s too embarrassing to discuss, even with her.

  “But then why do you find weak, lame-ass excuses to break up with every guy you date? Did you ever consider you’re too fussy?”

  “I’m not fussy. I just know what I want in a relationship, and I’m not willing to compromise my standards for a guy who isn’t exactly right.”

  Eden makes a noise of protest before going suspiciously silent.

  “What?” I say, pouring in some creamer and stirring my coffee. “What sarcastic quip are you suppressing right now?”

  She clears her throat. “I was going to say that there isn’t a man alive who could live up to all of your impossible standards, but then I realized there is at least one, and I’m dating him.”

  I make a triumphant noise. “Exactly. You have your perfect guy, and yet you’re encouraging me to give up on mine? Shame on you, Eden Marigold Tate.”

  After throwing my stirrer in the trash, I grab my coffee and head back to my desk.

  “Okay, you have a point.” Eden says. “Anyway, I just wanted to check in with you. I know I’ve been spending a lot of time with Max recently, and … well, I miss you. Are you sure there’s nothing you want to talk about? No other possible guys on the horizon? No celebrity crushes you want to share?”

  As I slide onto my chair, I click my mouse on Professor Feelgood’s feed once more and fan myself with my notepad. “Nope. Nothing and no one. I’m all good. Just … busy.” And about to solve the word’s energy crisis if I can figure out how to fit a thermal generator into my underpants.

  Eden pauses. I know she’s not totally buying my casual attitude, but she doesn’t push it, either. Knowing my sister, that won’t last long.

  “Okay, then,” she says, “See you tonight. Love you.”

  “Love you, too.”

  When I hang up, I let out a deep sigh. I know she’s sensing my growing unease with my boyfriend, but that’s not the only thing on my mind.

  Recently, I’ve been feeling … off, and I don’t know why. Is there such a thing as a mid-twenties crisis? I’m turning twenty-four in a few weeks, so that could be part of it, I guess. But I’ve been plagued by a niggling wrongness, as if I’m walking the incorrect path wearing someone else’s shoes. And even though they’re half a size too small, as long as I don’t think too hard, I’m able to ignore the discomfort and carry on.

  The Professor’s posts make me want to have a good hard look at the wrongness. He gives me the sudden urge to be brave and find the right path, along with a comfortable pair of shoes.

  If only I had the first clue how to do that.

  TWO

  ____________________

  A Challenging Challenge

  BY 8.30AM, THE OFFICE has gone from barren and silent to a hive of chatter and activity.

  With the Professor’s browser tab safely closed, I get on with my to-do list for the day. It’s crazy long, and I have no doubt that after everyone else goes home this evening, I’ll still be here, slaving away.

  Around nine, I look up from my computer and stifle a groan.

  It’s day 523 of working at Whiplash, and here comes Devin Shields to hit on me for the five-hundred-and-twenty-third time. As usual, his white-blond hair is slick and perfect, and he’s wearing a bright, patterned shirt underneath his slim navy suit. I’m not sure if he’s going for a Draco Malfoy vibe on purpose, but it’s there, nonetheless. If only I could Expecto Patronum his ass.

  “Tate.”

  “Shields.”

  I keep my eyes on my computer screen, but in my peripheral vision, I see him lean against the top of my cubicle. I continue to work, hoping he’ll get the hint that I’d rather finish this sales report than deal with him. Also, I know that if I look at him right now, I’ll catch him taking a luxurious assessment of my cleavage, and I’m not in the mood to hold myself back from stapling a Post-it reading MY EYES ARE UP HERE, ASSHOLE to the middle of his forehead.

  Devin truly believes he’s the stud of the editorial assistants in our plucky little publishing house, and because the rest of us are women, he’s right by default. A lot of the girls fan his ego by
vying for his attention, and I suppose he has some visual appeal, in a metrosexual, slicker-than-Vaseline type of way. But he looks too much like the cheating asshole I dated in high school for me to ever consider him hot. The sad truth is, even after all these years and dozens of failed relationships, blond men still give me hives.

  “You dress like this to torture me, don’t you?” Devin says. “The pencil skirt, the tight little shirt. It’s all designed to drive me crazy.”

  I give a solemn nod, still not making eye contact. “Yes, Devin. My first thought whenever I get dressed each morning is how it will affect you. It has nothing to do with what’s clean and fits me. You’ve found me out. Darn.”

  “I knew it. And to make matters worse, you’re looking extra fine today. Are those new glasses?”

  “Nope. Same pair I’ve worn every day for the past two years, but good job on those burgeoning observational skills.” They probably look new to him, because he’s more used to staring at my chest than my face. I sometimes think I should wear a jaunty pair of plastic boobs on a headband to help men bring their gaze north. I could sell the idea on Shark Tank and make millions from women who are sick of their nipples getting more attention than their eyeballs.

  “Well, I like the specs,” Devin says as he sits in the chair beside me without an invitation. “Very … sultry.”

  I ignore him and keep typing. I don’t actually need glasses, but I’ve always felt more comfortable wearing them in a literary environment. Being female and curvy in any industry will automatically lead to people making assumptions about one’s intelligence, as if bust size is inversely proportionate to IQ. So, I started wearing horn-rimmed glasses in college to give myself some sort of reverse street cred. Librarian cred, if you will. I feel like people take me more seriously when I wear them.

  Clearly, Devin is the exception to the rule. I could wear a full-length turtleneck Snuggie, and he’d still find some part of me to objectify. “Wow, Tate, those ankle knobs are hot. Looking good, girl.”

  “So, tell me, Asha,” Devin says, blithely ignoring my complete lack of interest. “Is this the week you cave in to our intense mutual attraction and go out with me?”

  I finally turn to look at him and give him a patient smile, which is more than he deserves. “Devin, I’ve told you before, you’re not my type. But even if you were, you know I’m seeing someone.”

  “Yeah, but he’s in France, right? Those long-distance things never work out.”

  “Maybe not, but we’re giving it a red-hot go.”

  My boyfriend’s not actually in France right now, but that’s the story I’m telling everyone. I naively thought Devin knowing I was off the market might give me some respite from his daily visits, but nope. Just one more kink in the irritable bowel of my current life plan.

  “Well,” Devin says, while leaning closer and lowering his voice to what he probably considers a ‘sexy whisper’. “If things don’t work out with your Frenchman, let me know. I may not speak the language, but I’m an expert in their style of kissing.”

  He finishes with a wink.

  Gross.

  I grit my teeth in a vague approximation of a smile. I’m not as good as my sister at shutting down a guy with a withering gaze or well-worded ego burn, but it’s on my list of things to work on, along with my carb-addiction and obsession with secondhand designer fashion.

  “I’ll try to remember that.”

  Devin looks around to make sure no one can overhear us then says, “Did Serena tell you that the company is looking to promote someone to editor?”

  Serena is the supervising editor and my direct boss, so I’ll wager I knew about it before he did. “Of course.”

  “And you’ve thrown your hat into the ring?”

  As if he didn’t already know the answer to that. “What do you think?”

  I’ve made no secret about my desire to be the youngest editor ever at Whiplash Publishing. In fact, I think my brazen ambition in my interview is what got me my job as an editorial assistant when I was straight out of college and greener than Kermit. For the past two years, I’ve been doing everything in my power to prove I have what it takes, from helping Serena with major edits, to ghost writing whole chapters on manuscripts that just weren’t working. After all the long hours and extra miles I’ve traveled to make myself indispensable, this promotion has my name written all over it. Or, at least, it should have.

  Of course, Devin is also supremely confident, mainly because he’s the nephew of our CEO, Robert Whip, which means his upward career trajectory is pretty much guaranteed. Devin’s not a bad editor, but he’s not great, either. The thing that sets him apart from pretty much everyone else here, though, is his supreme self-assurance. In the words of my wise grandmother, “Oh, Lord, give me the confidence of a mediocre man.”

  Despite his family connection, I doubt Mr. Whip would go full-on nepotism and give Devin a promotion he didn’t deserve. And yet, Devin’s wearing a smug expression that triggers my early-warning system.

  He crosses his legs. “What Serena didn’t tell you is that Uncle Robert has turned the interview process into a challenge. The candidate who brings in a project with the most potential to be a bestseller gets the job.”

  I stop typing and turn to him. This is new information. “What?”

  This is not good. In regular circumstances, I have absolute faith I’d get that job in a heartbeat, but finding a bestseller? That’s like asking me to pull a leprechaun out of my armpit. Some of the most experienced editors here still haven’t landed a bestseller, and they’ve been trying for years.

  Why do I get the impression that Devin had a hand in helping Mr. Whip come up with this cockamamie plan?

  “Yep,” Devin says as he reaches over to pick up my Shakespeare bobblehead. “Serena will be issuing a memo any minute now.” He twangs Willy’s head and watches it bounce. I grind my teeth. I don’t like anyone touching my Willy. Also, once when I quoted Macbeth to Devin, he thought it was Game of Thrones, so he absolutely doesn’t have the right to fondle the Willmeister.

  Just in time to avoid incurring my growing wrath, Devin puts Willy back on the desk and stands. “Anyway, just thought you should know. Seems like it’ll be you and me duking it out for that job. It’s a good thing your crappy taste in books means I’m likely to get the win.”

  I glare at him. “My crappy taste in what now?”

  “Aw, come on. You know you have a soft spot for that romance crap. I see you devouring it every lunch hour and coffee break. Personally, I wouldn’t be able to stomach reading the same unrealistic bullshit over and over again, but if mommy-porn is your thing, who am I to criticize?”

  A flush of anger hits me, and I stand to face him. “If you’d ever read a romance novel, Devin, you’d know that there’s a hell of a lot more to them than just erotica. They empower and inspire women. They comfort us, and yes, they sometimes arouse. I can’t believe you have so many ignorant pre-conceptions about an entire genre, especially considering ‘that romance crap’ is what keeps this publishing house afloat. Year after year, romance sales prove that the purchasing power of women is ––“

  Devin holds up his hands. “Whoa, okay, okay. Settle down, sweetheart. I didn’t realize dissing your precious romances would unleash the beast. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you get so fired up before.” He leans forward. “It’s incredibly hot.”

  For the first time ever, I put my hands on Devin Shields, specifically, on his shoulders to push him away from my desk. “Get out, Devin. I don’t have the patience to deal with you today.”

  He gives me a hurt expression. “Are you mad? Because if that’s the case, I’d be more than happy to meet you in the supply room so you could punish me.”

  I let out a breath and push my glasses up my nose. “It’ll be punishment enough when I get this promotion. Now you should probably leave before I call HR and inquire about our sexual harassment policy.”

  That gets me a bit of a sneer. “Jesus, Tate, learn
to take a joke. I think you’re just uptight because you know I’m going to get this job over you. Don’t worry, I’ll be a benevolent boss when I get kicked up the corporate ladder.” He smiles again, but this time it’s less friendly. He knows damn well I’m his main competition and that I’ll do everything in my power to beat him. However, he does have a major advantage over me, with his relatives working at three of New York’s major publishing houses. I have no doubt he’s already put in calls to every one of them in the search for the golden manuscript.

  I feel like I’m walking into the Thunderdome with a banana nailed to a stick while he’s toting a giant bastard sword.

  “See you later, Tate. Oh, and good luck.”

  Devin takes one more glance at my boobs before heading back to the other side of the office where his desk is located.

  I’m still glaring in his general direction when a memo about the challenge hits my inbox. As I read it, a sick sense of dread settles in my stomach. All the editorial assistants have two weeks to find the project we want to present, and then Serena and Mr. Whip will look at the submissions and judge them on projected sales and originality.

  I grab my current shortlist of manuscripts from the file on my desk and head into Serena’s office. Her work space is much like her: slick, modern, and pale. She looks up, unsurprised by my presence.

  “You read the memo.”

  “Yes.”

  She gestures for me to sit. “Do you have any leads?”

  “Not really. These are the most interesting manuscripts that have come in recently, and none of them have set my pants on fire.”

  I hand her the flimsy single sheet and then sit.

  Serena presses her cherry-red lips together as she scans my list. With her platinum bob glistening in the morning light, and her dress being in her usual palette of cream, beige, and white, she looks like a beautiful fashionista angel with blue-rimmed glasses. I’ve never met a woman as put-together as Serena. She seems to float through life with never a hair out of place or even a hint of a stain on her pristine, pale clothes. It’s both inspiring and irritating.