Loving the Ladies’ Man by Kristin Canary

Chapter 1

Ihave exactly three months, two weeks, and one day until my life potentially changes forever.

And my mother won’t let me forget it.

She doesn’t mean to make me feel guilty. I know that. But whenever I talk with her, I can’t help but think about the approaching deadline—about the promise I made nearly a decade ago.

“I know you love California, Evie, but I just couldn’t live there.” We’re shooting the breeze, catching up over my lunch break while I sit behind my desk eating cold leftover pizza. She’s spent the last several minutes telling me about all the things that have happened this week on the Iowa dairy farm she runs with my dad—the one that’s been in the Denmark family for over a century. The one I left behind to follow my own dreams. “I’d miss the rolling plains, the four seasons, the peace and quiet of home.”

As I hold my phone to my ear, I take a bite of crust and swivel in my office chair, leaning back and looking up at the familiar ceiling that’s riddled with a crumbly popcorn texture and several cracks. “Actually, I kind of like the fact that it’s February and I’m not freezing my rear off.” I try to infuse lightness into my tone, but can’t help the way it notches up, tight. “And not sure I’d exactly call it quiet there with all of those mooing cows.”

“Oh, sugar.” She laughs, and I can hear in her voice how much she loves me. “We sure do miss you. It’s not the same without you here. Maybe you can come for a visit soon?”

“Sure, Mom. I’ll try.” And I feel it again, like I’m sinking, drowning in a sea of should-I-haves. There’s nothing I hate more than hearing the disappointment in my mother’s voice.

But I know it isn’t just disappointment—it’s need. My parents need me to hold up my end of the bargain. The tiny bit of money I’ve started sending home every month isn’t enough to make much of a difference. Definitely not enough to hire another employee to give my parents a break.

Looking back, I suppose it was short-sighted to tell my parents I would move home and take over the dairy farm—the job I was groomed for since I was a kid—if I hadn’t met a certain level of career success within ten years. It was even more short-sighted to define “success” as “sending home X amount of dollars every month.” I cringe to think of that now, as if my self-worth can be tied to my finances.

But back then, ten years felt like a lifetime. I thought I had all the time in the world to prove to my parents—to myself—that I could both pursue my passions and be the daughter they deserved.

There’s a knock on my door and I sit up straight. Sally, one of my acquisitions editors, is standing in my office doorway. She waves at me and her eyes widen in that “I’ve got something important to discuss” look.

I hold up a finger and lower my voice. “Sorry, Mom. I’ve got to go.”

“Of course, sweetie. Talk soon?”

“Yes. Soon.” I hang up, blow out a breath, and run my hands through my waist-length brown hair that desperately needs a wash—and a trim.

But as the editorial director at Evermore Publishers, a boutique press in San Diego, I don’t have time for things like haircuts. I’ve been working about twelve to fifteen hours every day for the last two years—ever since David broke my heart—trying to prove to my boss that I’m a valuable employee so that when a promotion finally comes along, I’m in the running.

Plus, work has been a helpful way to forget the searing loss of my ex—the one that took me by complete surprise, even though it probably shouldn’t have.

I wonder if it’ll help me forget the stupid wedding invitation that showed up in the mail last week …

Ugh. Focus, Evie.

“Hi, Sally.” I wave her into the office. “What’s up?”

The twenty-something ducks inside and slides into the chair on the other side of my desk. “Sorry to interrupt. But …” She tugs on the ends of her black bob. That’s when I notice her eyes are bloodshot, her bottom lip trembling.

“Hey.” I reach for a tissue and hand it to her. “What’s going on?”

With a brave smile, she takes the tissue and wads it up into her fist. “It’s just that …” Her voice wobbles. “I’m a bit behind on the Perry project. I’d intended to work all weekend to finish it before Monday’s deadline but …” And then she starts to cry.

I jump out of my seat and round the desk, pulling my wheeled office chair with me. Then I sit and put an arm around her.

I know it’s not in my job description, but I can’t help but feel like my team is my family. Like Sally—along with Justine, Kelly, and Tanya—are my younger sisters. And I’ve got to do whatever it takes to help them succeed. To protect them. To keep them close.

And when I say it out loud, I realize I sound like a crazy person. Because these women, though younger than me, are adults and don’t need their manager taking care of them. But it doesn’t take a shrink to figure out that this intense need to make sure my team is okay stems from the fact that I didn’t protect my own sister, once upon a time.

I squeeze Sally’s shoulders again. “But what?”

“Well, the story is so beautiful and I’ve loved working on it, but John just …” Her breath is coming in spurts now. “He just broke up with me yesterday, and I can’t—absolutely can’t—bring myself to keep working on a story that’s got a happy ending. Not right now.”

“I can understand how that would be really difficult.” John … Wait, John? I thought her boyfriend was named Steve or something like that. “How long were you together?”

“T-two whole weeks!” Sally blows her red nose into the tissue. Mascara is now running down her cheeks and she looks like some sort of creepy clown.

I let her cry for a few more minutes while I rub her back. Because I understand this, the heartache of losing someone you love. Sure, some would say that two weeks is nothing compared to the years I invested in my relationship with David. But if you think someone is the one, and it turns out he isn’t, it doesn’t matter how long you were together. It hurts.

So it stands to reason that Sally might be hurting just as much as I did. Who am I to judge? “What can I do to help?” I mentally scan our editorial schedule. “We could maybe extend the deadline by a few days.”

Sally shakes her head vehemently. “I don’t think that will help. I … I can’t work on any romances right now.”

“But …” Evermore solely publishes romantic fiction. There are literally no other projects I can give her. “What do you suggest?”

She peeks up at me. “Could I take some time off next week? It would be really helpful for me to visit my family in Los Angeles. You understand, don’t you? Family is so important.”

Sure, drive the knife in deeper, Sally. Of course, she doesn’t know all the ways I’m currently failing my own family. “Yes, that’s absolutely fine. You have some vacation days, right?”

There she goes biting her lip again. “Maybe one or two.”

I hold back a sigh. “That’s fine. I’ll approve the extra time.”

“Oh, thank you so much.” She throws her arms around my neck for a quick hug. But then she pulls back, brow furrowed. “What about the Perry project?”

“Don’t worry about it. Just email me your notes so far.” I guess I’ll be spending my evening buried in the historical love story of Lady Elizabeth Williams and Lord Isaac Fairfax. There are worse ways to spend my time—she’s right that it’s a beautiful book, and from one of our more seasoned authors—but I was really looking forward to a movie night at home with my four housemates. It’s taken us weeks to find a night that will work with all of our schedules and now I get to be the one to disappoint my friends.

My stomach tightens just thinking about it.

Sally stands and wipes away the residual mascara on her face. She suddenly seems much more chipper, lighter, even. “Oh, by the way, Lisa said she needed to see you.”

“All right.” What could my boss want? Normally, she just sends me an IM or email if she wants an update on a project. “Thanks.”

“No problem.” Sally turns and fairly skips from the room. Just the thought of seeing her family must be enough to make her feel better.

I lock my computer and head out of my tiny office into the hallway with blue carpet that has to have been around longer than I’ve been alive (and do I want to know what kind of dirt and germs are embedded in the carpet that’s more than thirty-two years old? No, I do not). I arrive at Lisa’s door, knock, and pop my head inside her office.

Lisa Chambers—Evermore’s publisher (aka, head honcho)—is standing beside the large picture window that gives a picturesque view of downtown San Diego several miles away. Our office may be ancient and located in an out-of-the-way, decrepit business complex abutting a mountain, but it offers the most fantastic views you can imagine.

“Hi.” I attempt to straighten my rumpled cotton skirt, which is a bit crooked from my quick walk over. “Sorry, I just heard you needed to see me.”

Lisa waves her hand. “Not a problem. Come on in.” Today her silver-threaded hair is pulled back into a bun, which makes her high cheekbones even more pronounced than usual. She’s a five-foot-three powerhouse in a silky emerald-green blouse, a black jacket with three-quarter sleeves, and sleek black pants that probably cost more than I make in a month.

As I sit in one of the leather chairs across from her broad oak desk, I double check my white blouse to ensure Sally’s mascara didn’t stain it. Whew. All clear.

I cross and then uncross my legs. “So, all of our projects are on track to meet deadlines. As you know, we’ve just acquired two new titles and I’m very excited about one in particular.” Lisa stays quiet, just keeps staring out the window, so that must not be what she wants to discuss. Is she leaving it up to me to figure it out? She does that sometimes, and I hate it. I clear my throat. “Is this a good time to ask about the budget meeting yesterday? Because I was a bit confused by the—”

“Evie.” Lisa turns from the window, wearing an amused look. “Breathe.”

“Right.” I close my eyes for a minute, inhaling, imagining myself doing yoga. But who am I kidding? Yoga is totally Kayla and Lauren’s thing. The one time they dragged me along to yoga on the beach, I ended up with a bloody nose after a downward-facing dog pose went awry.

“Sorry I’m late.”

My eyes pop open at the deep male voice that suddenly reverberates through the room. I smell Connor before I see him, his citrusy cologne with hints of cedarwood and bergamot making my toes curl of their own accord inside my low-heeled pumps.

Marketing director Connor Bryant breezes through the door and sits in the chair next to me. I peek at him from the corner of my eye. A man should not be allowed to be as sexy as he is, with that brown hair styled to perfection and that five o’clock scruff dusting his tan, chiseled jaw. His black designer-cut suit fits him like a glove, serving to outline the broad shoulders of a guy who has clearly been an athlete all his life.

If I were ever to see him with his shirt off—don’t even picture it, Evie!—he would definitely have a six-pack lurking under the crisp dark blue shirt that brings out the piercing quality of his gold-flecked brown eyes.

Too bad his sexiness is only skin deep.

Oh, plenty of women in our office, from Kim in accounting to Chelsea in sales to Bridgette in legal, rave about Connor’s personality too. (“He’s the whole package, you guys!”) I don’t know if the rumors are true that he’s gone to drinks (and done who knows what else) with several of the women in the office, but he obviously enjoys his position as the only male at Evermore excepting seventy-year-old Jorge in subsidiary rights.

So yeah, Connor may have a pretty face, but when I look at him, I just see a ginormous flirt who leads women on—and I despise a man like that.

Especially when he keeps a woman on the hook for years. When he makes her think he’s just as into her as she is him. When the whole time he’s dating her, he is actually falling for her friend.

Oh, wait. I was talking about Connor, wasn’t I?

Not David.

Still. Men like him can’t be trusted.

Connor lifts his stupidly sexy eyes in acknowledgment of me for a split second before turning a crooked grin toward Lisa. “To what do we owe the pleasure of your summons, oh Fearless Leader?”

Here we go.

But instead of rolling my eyes at his sweet talk like I really want to do, I act the professional and flit on a smile to match his, straightening in my seat as if that will make me more than the frumpy workaholic he must see me as. “Yes, Lisa, can’t wait to hear what all of this is about!”

Connor snorts at my peppy timbre, but I ignore him and keep focused on Lisa, who finally sits and places her folded hands on the desktop. My heart skitters in that moment. It’s not abnormal for her to meet with Connor and me at the same time, but this meeting was unscheduled.

Unplanned.

And I absolutely hate it when things are sprung on me. My mind flashes to the invitation tucked under a stack of papers on my desk back in my office. Stephanie Lamb and David Atkinson invite you to join their wedding celebration …

I shudder and refocus on Lisa, whose lips are moving. Oh no. I missed whatever it is she said.

“… and that’s why I’ve narrowed down my pool of contenders to the two of you.”

Huh? Contenders for what?

My eyes dart between Lisa and Connor, who strokes his long fingers down the sides of his face and chin. “Thank you for having such faith in us, Lisa. We won’t let you down.”

When both of their gazes float in my direction, I nod, a tad too enthusiastic (especially for someone who has no idea what was said). But there’s no way I can admit I wasn’t listening. “Absolutely.”

“Wonderful. So I’ll be watching you both even more closely.” Lisa turns to face her computer, then flicks her eyes back to us. “Go on, then. Back to work, my dream team.”

Connor stands and I follow suit, all the way into the hallway. Before he can return to his office, I place my hand on his upper arm. And ho boy. His bicep underneath my fingers is rock hard. I know he works as much as I do, so how in the world does this guy find time to get arms like this? Maybe he does pushups in his office in between conference calls.

My armpits are suddenly sweating at the mental image.

“Yeah?” His six-two frame doesn’t exactly tower over me—after all, I’m five-nine. But I feel as small as a mouse facing a mountain when I look up into those same eyes that are every woman’s fantasy.

Every other woman, that is.

I quickly remove my hand. “So I was a bit distracted in there.” Flexing the fingers that just touched Connor, I rub them with my other hand. “I didn’t hear what Lisa said.”

“Which part?” Arms crossed over his chest, he leans against the hallway wall, regarding me with an air of coolness—his modus operandi when it comes to our interactions in private.

“Um … all of it?”

He laughs, incredulous.

Why did I ever think to ask him for help? “Forget it. I’ll just …” Sure that my face resembles a tomato, I turn on my heel to retreat to my office.

“Wait.”

I stop, pivot back to face him, eyebrows raised.

He runs a hand through his hair. Lucky hand. (Stop it, Evie! So he’s attractive! Get over it.) “She said that she’s opening up an associate publisher position around Memorial Day—when the budget will allow for it—and she wants to promote from within.”

Associate publisher would be a significant step up for me. More responsibilities, little to no editing, but it would come with better benefits, including a larger paycheck.

Exactly what I need to finally fulfill the promise I made to my parents.

And just in time too, because Memorial Day is about three months away.

I tap my foot against the ground. “And she’s going to promote one of us?”

“That’s right.” A tiny smile curls the edges of his lips.

What? Does he think he’s got the job in the bag? I mean, yeah, if Lisa is selecting someone based on how well they can schmooze, Connor will for sure be her top pick.

But I work just as hard, if not harder, than he does. My team seems to like me all right. I know the business inside and out. And I’m a darn good editor.

Yes. I’d be a good choice too.

That’s right, Evie. Keep telling yourself you have a chance against Mr. Charming.

I swallow hard. “So one of us will become the other’s boss?” Just what I need—and I don’t know which scenario would be worse. Somehow having to manage Connor or having a boss I don’t respect.

“She was a bit murky on those details. Said most likely she’d keep at least one of our positions as a direct report for herself. She just needs someone to share the load.”

Whew. Tugging at the bottom of my shirt, I nod. “Thanks for filling me in.”

“Of course.” He studies me for a moment, then extends his hand. “May the best person win.”

“Right.” When I touch his skin with my own, something in my legs becomes soft, like melting ice. And yet Connor doesn’t seem affected at all. He pulls his hand away and turns back toward his office.

Just as I’m retreating into my own, I hear him greet our receptionist, June. He’s over-the-top friendly and I turn my head at the last minute to see him leaning over her desk, plucking a piece of chocolate from her dish and laughing when she punches him playfully in the shoulder.

In the ten years that we’ve worked together, he’s never once acted like that with me. In fact, other than Lisa, I might just be the only woman in the office he’s never flirted with.

But you know what? That’s fine. I mean, at one point, I might have welcomed his attention (back when I was naive). But then I had David, and that relationship consumed me for three years.

And if David taught me anything, it’s that I can’t trust my own judgment when it comes to smooth-talking men.

Now, I’m focusing on my career—either I’ll get this job and stay here in California, or Connor will get promoted and I’ll get a one-way ticket back to Iowa, having failed in my mission to send my parents enough money for the farm.

Sure, my dream job will be in the rearview mirror, but at least they won’t have to suffer anymore for their daughter’s selfish choices.

I’ve already cost them their oldest daughter. I can’t cost them their livelihood—their home—as well.

Blinking against hot liquid threatening to fall down my cheeks, I peel my eyes off of the scene unfolding in the front lobby and step firmly into my office, closing the door and plopping into my chair.

As I wake up the computer screen, download Sally’s notes, and put my eyes on the historical manuscript she sent over, I slowly lose myself in the story. My breath comes easier and my pulse slows.

And yet, in the back of my mind, there pounds a steady thought.

Somehow, I have to beat Connor—but I don’t know if I can.