Boomerang (6 page)

He pauses, letting that sink in. And it does. Like ice water. I took this internship because of the promise of a job at the end of the summer. I did
not
sign up to work my ass off for free, only to end up with nothing.

I can’t afford that. I will starve if I don’t get this job.

I’m too close to it as it is.

I feel Mia’s eyes dart over to me. This girl showed up in my life less than twenty-four hours ago. I’ve slept with her. I’ve shared a cab with her and given her my dress shirt to wear. But this new situation is a game-changer.

Officially, Mia is now my competition.

“Is that understood?” Adam asks, his eyes narrowing on me and then shifting to Mia.

I nod.

Mia says, “Yes.”

“Good.” Adam folds his hands together. “Now for rules. There’s really only one. This business sets up people who want no-strings-attached company. That’s what I sell. Relationships for people on the rebound. People who want fun, without any emotional entanglement. But the office policy is no relationships, tangled or entangled, or in any form at all. Ever.” Once again, he looks from me to Mia, his blue eyes glinting. “Have I made myself clear?”

This time Mia nods, and I’m the one who answers.

“That won’t be a problem,” I say.

I need this job. And I always play to win.

Chapter 7

Mia

Q: Do you forgive and forget, or hold a grudge?

T
hat won’t be a problem.

Ethan’s words ricochet around in my already battered brain as we accompany Adam Blackwood down a long corridor.

I drop back, letting the two of them stride along in front of me. Beth’s boots pinch my toes, and I have to take about six steps for every two of theirs. I feel deflated, bruised, and not really sure what bothers me more—that this great opportunity turned into a cage match or that I just took a sucker punch to the ego from someone I don’t even know if I want.

That won’t be a problem.

Probably, if I’d woken in my own bed and wasn’t nursing the hangover of a million rock stars, I could shrug off those five words. But they keep twinging inside me, like muscles you forget are sore until you stretch the wrong way.

I’m here for the job, I remind myself. Not the guy. I couldn’t even remember his name an hour ago, and now I’m pouting because he wants to focus on his work? This is better. This makes it all that much easier to crush him.

Um, I mean
earn this fantastic opportunity on the basis of my merits
.

Bits of their conversation waft back to me as we move in and out of halos of LED lights:
market penetration, abandonment rate
. Ethan’s already grabbed the baton, and here I am moping along in the background. Is that the Mia Galliano who’s going to take on this mother-flippin’ world? No, it is not.

So I need a plan. One that includes leaving Ethan in the dust.

I steel myself and take a few healthy strides to catch up to them. Wedging myself next to Adam, I force Ethan to shoulder-bump the wall.

“I’ve already got a hundred great ideas,” I tell Adam Blackwood. “How about a more
cinematic
approach to your promotions? Like a visual narrative we can carry out along all kinds of transmedia platforms. What do you think?”

“I like the sound of that,” he says and gives me a wink that would relax Medusa’s hair.

I keep him chatting until we reach an alcove with a massive partner desk in Plexiglas and chrome. Tablet computers rest on each side, with additional wireless keyboards and fancy tri-fold monitors spread across the desktop. The geek girl in me salivates—classily, of course.

On a long concrete countertop nearby, a towering espresso machine alternately hisses and gurgles, its four nozzles caked with foam. Beneath it, cabinet doors gape open, and a profusion of cleaning supplies and paper cups spills out onto the floor.

Adam glances at the kitchen area, his expression darkening, and then gestures us to the sleek white leather captain’s chairs flanking the desk. We both go for the same one, smacking inelegantly into one another. Ethan puts a hand on my shoulder to keep me from tottering, and that delicious beach-smoke scent of his hollows my insides.

Focus, Mia.

I ease away and flop into the oversized seat, the wheels of which promptly roll me about six feet across the space.

“What’s first on the agenda?” asks Ethan. He settles into his chair like he was born to it, though his legs are so long that his burnished Oxfords end up under my side. I roll back up to the desk, feeling overly conscious of every bit of him—his feet right near my own. His toned legs and broad shoulders perfectly encased in his suit. His ink-blue eyes, inquisitive and friendly, focused on Adam. Not aggressive. Not overeager. Just deep and thoughtful, alive with his desire to dive into a challenge.

“Today, I want you to get signed up on Boomerang. You need to have the client experience to know how to sell it, right? And everything we do—this dating site, our film and TV properties—it’s about tapping into a certain zeitgeist. Really understand how to speak to our audience, and you can write your own ticket. So, take a look around the site, fill out member profiles, get familiar with it all.”

Brushing imaginary lint from his sleeve, he says, “In fact, I want you two to fill out bios for one another. Get to know your competition.” His shrewd eyes move back and forth between us, and a knowing smirk makes a fleeting appearance. “All right?”

Ethan nods and fires up his tablet. “Great.”

I sit back but hook a toe around my desk leg so I don’t roll away again.

“Sure,” I say, glancing at Ethan. “That won’t be a problem.”

Chapter 8

Ethan

Q: Tell us a little about yourself.

A
dam walks away, leaving us at our new desks.

For a few seconds, Mia and I just stare at each other. I wonder if she’s as tired as I am. Whatever we did together last night, sleep didn’t figure into it much. I don’t drink coffee, but I’m tempted to fire up the massive coffee machine on the counter and mainline some espresso.

“Should we get started?” she asks, her tone a little too bright. She’s not happy about competing for something that was supposed to be a sure thing either.

I have a wild urge to bow out of the running and let her have the damn internship. Then I remember the box crate in my closet filled with utility bills, student loans, and law school applications. Bowing out would be really fucking dumb. I barely know this girl.

But apparently that’s about to change.

Mia taps on the keyboard in front of her. “Do you want to take turns or go at the same time?”

“Let’s go at the same time. That’s usually more fun.”

Her eyes snap up to me. Guess I’m not the only one with a dirty mind.

“I’ll start.” I open the laptop in front of me and find the Boomerang Profile icon, clicking it open. “Last name?”

“Galliano. Two L’s. One N.”

“You’re Italian?” All morning I’d been thinking she’s Greek or Brazilian.

“Half Italian, half Jewish,” she says. “Guilt is my Kryptonite.”

Her eyes are on the screen, but I can tell she’s fighting a smile.

“Vance for me. Just how it sounds. Age?”

“Twenty-one,” she answers. “I’m an early bloomer.”

I get the feeling her sense of humor cannot be contained. That’s trouble. This would be much easier if she were more like Alison, who’d go on emotional benders for weeks for reasons I never understood. Mia can’t be this easygoing.

“Twenty-one for me, too.”

We keep going, plowing through some basics, and I learn she was born in Little Silver, New Jersey, and is an only child. Her favorite childhood book is
The Phantom Tollbooth,
and her favorite dessert is something called halvah.

I tell her that I was born in Colorado, actually
in
my parents’ bowling alley; that my favorite color might be brown—or maybe red or orange—but I’ll tragically never know since they tend to look the same, thanks to my mild color-blindness; and that my favorite foods are anything that’s not Chinese.

Then we get to the tougher questions.

“Duration and end of last relationship?” I ask.

“Ugh
.” Mia grimaces and drives her fingers into her curly hair. “People actually have to answer this?”

“This service
is
for people on the rebound.”

“I suppose. But the question’s kind of a downer, right? Anyway, my last relationship lasted a year, and ended about a year ago. You?”

I stare at the blinking cursor on my screen. A year ago? No one else since then? I don’t know why, but that surprises me.

“Ethan?”

“What—oh. Two years for the duration, and it ended two months ago.”

“Wow. Two years?”

“Next question.”

“Touchy subject?”

I look up and see a teasing smile.

“You could say that.” For a while there, I’d thought this day couldn’t possibly get any weirder, but talking about Alison to a girl I slept-and-now-work-with is definitely leveling me up.

“Next
.
Question,
” I say. “Unless you want to watch me destroy an overpriced espresso machine.”

“Number of sexual partners?” she says.

“What the fuck?” My eyes drop to the screen. Sure enough, there’s the question.

“I believe the question pertains to how many. Not what.”

“Christ. They really want to get to know you, don’t they?” I roll my shoulders, feeling like I’m suddenly boiling. “Fine. Just don’t judge, okay? This is a sensitive subject for me. Eighty-three.”

Mia rolls her eyes. “In your
dreams
.”

“Actually, then that number would much higher. Infinity, probably. If you want a real number, though, it’s an even ten. And let me remind you that I was with one girl for two long-ass years, so you have to factor that into account.”