5. The Sex and Sandwiches Giveaway
5
THE SEX AND SANDWICHES GIVEAWAY
Veronica
I’m shaking with embarrassment as I shut the door of my apartment and sink to the floor.
“I thought it might be you when I saw the sex and sandwiches post from Agnes.”
“Yeah, kind of a giveaway, I’m the culprit.”
“But at least it’s not trending,” Hazel says, trying to make the best of my blunder.
“I’m such an idiot,” I mutter.
“No, you’re not. We’ll find a way to fix this. We always do,” she says, eager to flex her big sister problem-solving muscles, and they’re buff and toned for sure.
Only, I don’t know if anyone can repair this damage.
“Thanks, Hazel,” I choke out, pushing past the knot in my throat as I hang up and brace myself for all kinds of backlash.
While StudMuffin wanders to his water dish, I peek at my work email on my phone, then jerk away, gasping in terror. No wonder there were so many messages blinking at me when I got out of bed.
Not only did I send my Virgin Club column to Bellamy last night, I also, evidently, sent my bang-me-on-the-balcony fantasy to the entire distribution list at McGee Whitney Books, and to one very old-fashioned author, who was CC’ed too.
How the hell did this happen?
Heading to my laptop at the table, I try to retrace my steps from yesterday. I finished the editorial letter, opened the email to my company, then hit pause. I went to my deck, dictated The Virgin Club column, then when I got it back and edited it, I must have . . .
I groan.
When I copied my anonymous sex column, I must have hit paste in two places—once to Bellamy and once to everyone at work, copying on top of the editorial letter I’d meant to send.
But I didn’t hit send on the Agnes letter. So how the hell is this damning mixed-up email in my sent messages?
Wishing terribly for that time machine once more, I glance up from the screen as Hot Stuff saunters out of the bathroom and heads my way, looking thoroughly innocent.
But also . . . not ?
Oh, god. When he jumped on the keyboard last night, he must have fired off my email to McGee Whitney Books—the one I was saving to re-read in the morning. “Why are you such a cat?” I ask, annoyed at the critter.
But immediately, I feel terrible for lashing out at him. I reach down and haul his burly body into my lap. It’s not his fault. I foolishly pasted the wrong contents. He just pulled the trigger with his big paws.
Shame engulfs me as I peer at the damage. Email after email from colleagues, from graphic designers, and from my boss asking me to meet her at eight-thirty in her office, even though we don’t open till nine, then one from Twitter.
Why is Twitter emailing me?
The only reason is a possible alert. I set some up to track if my authors trend.
The hair on the back of my neck prickles.
No. Say it isn’t so.
Agnes Millicent’s post—the one Hazel spotted this morning—is now trending on Twitter. I want to crawl under the covers for the rest of time. But I have to look at the ten-car pileup that’s my career.
I click over to the Internet’s roasting pit, and I recoil as my career goes up in flames.
A lady never names names, so I won’t divulge the perpetrator, but I cannot fathom why I received a tawdry letter this morning from McGee Whitney Books. A lewd, crude, and filthy email about sex and sandwiches. I am so very triggered. Might there be any other publishing house looking for an author who’s sold millions of books for innocent children?
“There’s nothing wrong with sex and sandwiches,” I shout into the void. But there’s no way to make lemonade of these lemons.
A few minutes later, I’ve taken the first step to fixing my error—I’ve sent the correct editorial letter to Blanche. Then I get dressed quickly, swipe on blush and lip gloss, and bang on Ellie’s door. I warned her via text I was coming. No way am I heading into the lion’s den of the office without her eyes checking me out from stem to stern. My judgment is a snake, and I don’t trust it.
When she swings open the door, I gesture to my black slacks and black blouse. This close to hyperventilating, I blurt out: “Does this outfit say fire me on sight, or slap me on the wrist and let me off with a reprimand because I’m such an amazing editor and you can’t bear to let me go?”
I press my palms together in prayer as Ellie gives me a serious once-over, then renders the verdict: “It says I’m dressed for my own funeral .”
Ugh. “I don’t want to give them ideas.” I lean my forehead against the doorjamb and moan into the wood. “Why can’t she just fire me over email like a normal person who hates conflict would do?”
“Or via a text,” Ellie says sympathetically.
“Maybe it’s a good sign she called me in before the office opens—the perfect time for a reprimand and a talking-to before I go about my day?” I ask, my voice pitching up with hope.
“Yes! So put on your hot pink cap-sleeve blouse rather than your widow garb. Think positive thoughts,” Ellie says, shooing me back to my apartment. She’s such an upbeat person. Maybe some of it will rub off on me. “Do you want me to watch StudMuffin? I have a table read this afternoon for Unfinished Business, but that’s it. He can hang out with Gigi McDoodle and me till then, and maybe it’ll just be a normal day at work for you.”
I adore her optimism. No matter what happens in the office, at least I have good friends. “I would love that.”
I pop back into my place to change my shirt and grab my little love. Back at Ellie’s door, I give StudMuffin a firm squeeze, then hand him over and head out.
For the first time in a long time, I send a wish to the universe that I don’t run into Mister Sexy Pants on the way to the office.
The universe delivers that small blessing.