Scoring Eden (Seattle Strikers #2)

1. ONE

ONE

EDEN

My fingers flit across the keyboard of the outdated computer, the incessant tap-tap-tapping drilling into my brain like the dripping of Chinese water torture.

I hate the stupid big buttons on the keyboard.

Hate the slow, archaic model of the computer that should have met its end back in the nineties.

And I hate the smarmy smile of my boss as he leans a shoulder against the door frame and sips his coffee through a straw.

A straw.

“Remind me when my next appointment is, Edith.”

No hello. No good afternoon. No question as to how my day is going.

My teeth grind together, and a chip of enamel breaks off, which wouldn’t be a big deal—considering I’m a dental receptionist and get free insurance in my employment package—if the idea of Dr. John Anderson being anywhere near my mouth didn’t make me want to vomit into the trash can beside my desk.

It’s the predominant motivating factor in maintaining my impeccable oral hygiene.

“It’s Eden,” I correct him, injecting maximum sweetness into my voice in the hopes that it will give him a cavity so deep he’ll need a root canal. “And you have a one-thirty with Mr. Wolfe.”

He casts his beady eyes to the clock suspended on the wall to my right. “That gives me fifteen minutes to chat with you, then.”

And three hours and forty-five minutes until I get to go home.

I close the document I was working on with a sigh—a letter of resignation I will never send because I need this job and I’m disgustingly unemployable. “What can I do for you, Mr. Anderson?”

His expression thunders before he masks it with another skeezy grin. “It’s Doctor Anderson.”

I shrug as if I hadn’t riled him up on purpose. Sue me for finding an ounce of joy in an otherwise soul-rotting environment. “My mistake, Doctor.”

Fiddling with the drawstring of his scrubs, he lowers himself onto the burgundy sofa in the waiting area in front of my desk and manspreads.

He paid double my monthly salary for that sofa.

An interesting choice, when the computer system is twenty years out of date, and the swivel chair beneath me shudders in complaint every time I sit on it, but who cares about employee comfort when you can buy a multi-thousand-dollar Chesterfield instead?

“As you know, we’ve recently undergone some refurbishments, and you’ve been reaping the benefits.”

I stare at the permanent glitch in the corner of my computer screen. Reaping the benefits, my ass.

“Well, I’m sure you understand that while it was imperative for the future of the practice, none of it came cheaply, and that money has to come from somewhere.”

Sliding a pen off my desk, I grip it in my hand and squeeze to alleviate the mounting tension in my bloodstream. In my temples, my pulse thuds a brisk rhythm, though you couldn’t tell from the easy smile on my face.

“As such, your pay will unfortunately be reduced by fifteen percent, effective immediately.”

The pen shatters in my hand.

Ink spills across my palm and wrist, staining my skin a deep blue.

A shard of clear plastic wedges itself into my thumb, and I yank it out numbly.

There’s no pain. Only a whoosh of anger in my ears that makes it difficult to discern anything other than the satisfied expression of my boss cutting back at me.

He slaps his knee and rises from the sofa. “I best get set up for my one-fifteen. He’s a high-profile man, so smack on a smile, and give him your best service. I’m hoping to increase my celebrity clientele.”

“Of course you are,” I grit out, unable to see through the thick fog of red still clouding my vision.

“I appreciate your understanding, Edith.”

I can’t stress enough how much he does not have my understanding.

The door bangs shut behind him, and I launch the broken pen at the window across my desk. It splatters blue fireworks across the glass, and I groan, knowing I’ll need to clean it up before Mr. High-Profile Celebrity Man appears, lest I accrue a further fifteen percent cut to my already measly pay.

What am I going to do?

I’ve been working my ass off trying to make ends meet with little success for so long that I’ve convinced myself the ends I’ve been cursed with are repelling magnets.

Every time I get close to them touching, they pull away from each other.

And now, I’m staring down the barrel of a five-hundred-dollar-per-month loss, wondering how the fuck I’m going to keep pulling them together.

Between the extortionate rent prices that come with living in Seattle, the rise in food costs, and the extracurriculars my son participates in, I’m drowning.

I need new ends. Evidently, mine are faulty.

It’s fine. Everything’s gonna be okay. You’ll figure it out later. Just get through the day first.

Wheeling my chair over to the cabinet that houses the cleaning supplies, I heave it open and fish out some dried-out antibacterial wipes and an old rag.

Another thing Anderson considers less important than a fancy new sofa: cleaning supplies.

Hatred for my boss is a cloud of putrid smoke inside me as I drag a dry wipe across my hands, cursing when it does nothing to reduce the staining. Even spraying product onto my skin doesn’t produce any results, so I accept my fate and turn my attention to the window instead.

“Did a squid explode in here?”

My head rears toward the voice, my finger jamming onto the lever of the bottle I’m holding and shooting the product directly into my eye.

“Motherfucker!” I clutch my face, tears streaming as the chemicals make good headway in burning off my retinas.

“Are you okay?”

Half blind, I peer at the man through my fingers and force a smile. “Dandy.”

He tilts his head to one side as he takes me in, cowered in my swivel chair with the rag clenched in my blue hands and an eye that I can only imagine is the color of the surface of an active volcano. “You sure about that?”

I try to force my eye open to prove that I’m fine but immediately close it again. Fuck, this shit hurts. “Mm-hmm.”

He rocks back on his heels and grimaces. “You should get some water on that.”

“I’m fine.”

I am, in fact, very, very much not fine.

“You look it. There a restroom here?” I cock my finger left to indicate that it’s down the hall.

Yes, please, leave me alone. Allow me some dignity in my suffering.

But no dice. He returns within thirty seconds, in which time I’ve managed to wheel myself back to my desk and am actively considering fleeing the country.

Which I can’t do, unfortunately. Not least because my passport expired years ago, and I still haven’t renewed it, but I'm a twenty-eight-year-old single mother who lives in a one-bedroom apartment with no monetary resources.

Swallowing my pride, I allow my gaze to flicker back to his—sparkling blue, shimmering like the surface of Lake Washington, and containing more amusement than I feel comfortable with, given my current state of affairs.

He holds my stare for a moment before scanning the length of me. My bloodshot eye. The ink stains on my skin. The strands of dark hair that have slipped free from the bun on top of my head.

Smirking, he eats up the space between us and extends a piece of wet paper towel out toward me. “For you, m’lady.”

I blink at the saturated gift in his hand, nose scrunched.

Unwillingly, my gaze travels beyond it, to the gray marl of his sweatpants, then over his white t-shirt that must be at least a size too small for how it stretches across his chest. His arms don’t fare much better, muscles bulging from the sleeves in a way that must be uncomfortable.

Then I move up to his dark-blond hair, pulled back into a topknot far neater than my own, before moving to his lips.

It’s always the most attractive people that bear witness to my humiliation.

“You should probably wait to check me out until after you’ve cleaned your eye.”

My face drains. Ashamed of my very existence, I snatch the wet paper towel from his hand and hold it to my eye.

“Wasn’t it the other one?”

Get a fucking grip, Eden. I move the towel to the other eye, sinking down in my chair to the sound of a soft chuckle. My cheeks burn, shame prickling at them like an open flame, and for a horrifying moment, I think I might cry.

“You look flushed. Are you not feeling so good?”

Through gritted teeth, I force out, “You’re making it worse.”

“What?”

I chance a peek through my good eye, finding two winking dimples and a roguish smile. “The shame.”

“Don’t worry about it. You’re not the first woman to trip over themselves in my presence, and you certainly won’t be the last.”

“Excuse me?”

He shoves his hands deep into the pockets of his sweatpants and shrugs. “I’m just saying, it isn’t a new occurrence for me, so there’s no need to be embarrassed. If anything, it’s flattering.”

I point to my injured eye. “You think this happened because I was tripping over myself in your presence?”

His lips twitch. “Is that not what happened?”

“Not for the reason you’re implying.”

“Oh?” There’s that fucking smirk again, dripping with arrogance in a way so aggravatingly attractive that it makes me want to crush another pen. “What is it I’m implying?”

I ignore the question. “You caught me by surprise at a bad time.”

“So, you weren’t checking me out before?”

“Of course not.” It’s a lie. I know it’s a lie. He knows it’s a lie.

“Huh.” He runs a large hand down his chest. “I must have had something on my shirt, then…and my arms…and my pants. Weird, must be gone now.”

Huffing, I drop the towel from my eye and roll my shoulders back. “I should get you checked in.”

“It’s probably safer for us both if you do.”

Opening up the sign-in software, I make a point to keep my eyes fixed on the screen. “Name?”

It’s in front of me, glaring from the schedule on my computer, but I’ve already put two and two together and figured he must be the celebrity Anderson told me to expect, and clearly, the man needs humbling.

The pause that follows belays his surprise. “Alex.”

“Last name?”

“Wolfe.”

Would it be a step too far to ask him for ID?