could overheat, Lissa headed over to turn it off before it started a fire or burned out the bulb.
“Can I help you?”
Her fingers froze inches from the warmth of the lamp, and she suddenly felt like a rogue caught cutting a purse. She spun around and struggled not to shove her hands behind her back as if she were guilty.
The voice had come from the corner—from the futon Murph had mentioned earlier. It was a worn, black thing lurking in a shadow, and the shape on it, upon closer inspection, turned out to be a dude. Or, to be more specific, a lanky Viking in a kilt, black shirt, and boots, sitting up with knees sprawled open and an iPad balanced on one thigh. His red-blond hair was pulled back in a loose ponytail, and he was smirking at her. Like he'd just caught her trying to lift his purse after a bad roll.
Had she seen him before? No way. He had to be new. She'd been with Interprog for three years and went to all the company functions. Not because she enjoyed hanging out with unimaginative suits who couldn't quote a single Marvel movie, but because she wanted to support her programmers, who were often the redheaded and underappreciated stepchildren of any interactive corporate institution.
But she'd have noticed this guy, as he was seriously freaking hot and looked like a cross between Thor and Loki. He had Thor's hair, blue eyes, and chiseled jaw and Loki's lanky physique and knowing smile. The kilt was a welcome and natural addition to the mix. Feeling suddenly self-conscious and overly warm, Lissa dug her toes into the carpet and wished she'd had the good sense to put on her damn shoes before dancing around the empty office like a fucking pixie.
“Oh, I just heard the music and figured I would turn it off.”
“You have something against The Mowgli's?”
His voice was weirdly cultured but carried no accent, and he seemed more amused than insulted. But she, usually the stoic alpha-chick, was a bit bamboozled. She had a reputation around the office as a bitch, and she used it to further her department. This guy must not have got the memo.
“Never heard of 'em before. Just figured I'd save someone the trouble of getting their ass chewed out when Dr. Horne got back.”
He stood and snapped his iPad case closed as he walked to the dock and turned off the music. The air was instantly still and charged, the weird negative nothing of the snowstorm crashing against the thick, tinted windows the only sound.
“Dr. Horne and I have a deal. He doesn't tell me how to run my life, and I don't quit.”
Lissa chuckled. “Yeah, and do you run this department?”
“I'm my own department. Photography, population: 1.”
Lissa's memory pinged, and it all clicked. “Oh. You're Ranger.”
After a string of wretched camera monkeys who could make a truck look like a stump or a model look like a porn star, Dr. Horne had taken a new direction and hired a maverick photographer making waves with a popular tumblr that went viral and spawned a coffee table book. The guy's name was Mark Ranger, and he'd come on board with more gossip than fanfare, an upstart who was given free reign so long as he kept turning out mind-blowing work that was miles ahead of the competition. Now that she thought about it, she remembered hearing the Media girls squealing over him on his first day, when he'd worn a suit and tie, black on black. Now she understood their response. But she knew immediately that they had no chance with the man standing before her.
A man with the balls to wear a kilt to work and the physique to pull it off was already in a different universe than the catty salesgirls who couldn't pick Star-Lord out of a line-up.
“Yeah, but when you say it like that, I feel like Aragorn.”
“And that's a bad thing?”
His grin broke wide, showing wolfish white teeth. “You must be Melissa Martin.”
“How'd you know?”
“Because you're the only woman in this building who looks like Wonder Woman, knows Lord of the Rings, and
“Can I help you?”
Her fingers froze inches from the warmth of the lamp, and she suddenly felt like a rogue caught cutting a purse. She spun around and struggled not to shove her hands behind her back as if she were guilty.
The voice had come from the corner—from the futon Murph had mentioned earlier. It was a worn, black thing lurking in a shadow, and the shape on it, upon closer inspection, turned out to be a dude. Or, to be more specific, a lanky Viking in a kilt, black shirt, and boots, sitting up with knees sprawled open and an iPad balanced on one thigh. His red-blond hair was pulled back in a loose ponytail, and he was smirking at her. Like he'd just caught her trying to lift his purse after a bad roll.
Had she seen him before? No way. He had to be new. She'd been with Interprog for three years and went to all the company functions. Not because she enjoyed hanging out with unimaginative suits who couldn't quote a single Marvel movie, but because she wanted to support her programmers, who were often the redheaded and underappreciated stepchildren of any interactive corporate institution.
But she'd have noticed this guy, as he was seriously freaking hot and looked like a cross between Thor and Loki. He had Thor's hair, blue eyes, and chiseled jaw and Loki's lanky physique and knowing smile. The kilt was a welcome and natural addition to the mix. Feeling suddenly self-conscious and overly warm, Lissa dug her toes into the carpet and wished she'd had the good sense to put on her damn shoes before dancing around the empty office like a fucking pixie.
“Oh, I just heard the music and figured I would turn it off.”
“You have something against The Mowgli's?”
His voice was weirdly cultured but carried no accent, and he seemed more amused than insulted. But she, usually the stoic alpha-chick, was a bit bamboozled. She had a reputation around the office as a bitch, and she used it to further her department. This guy must not have got the memo.
“Never heard of 'em before. Just figured I'd save someone the trouble of getting their ass chewed out when Dr. Horne got back.”
He stood and snapped his iPad case closed as he walked to the dock and turned off the music. The air was instantly still and charged, the weird negative nothing of the snowstorm crashing against the thick, tinted windows the only sound.
“Dr. Horne and I have a deal. He doesn't tell me how to run my life, and I don't quit.”
Lissa chuckled. “Yeah, and do you run this department?”
“I'm my own department. Photography, population: 1.”
Lissa's memory pinged, and it all clicked. “Oh. You're Ranger.”
After a string of wretched camera monkeys who could make a truck look like a stump or a model look like a porn star, Dr. Horne had taken a new direction and hired a maverick photographer making waves with a popular tumblr that went viral and spawned a coffee table book. The guy's name was Mark Ranger, and he'd come on board with more gossip than fanfare, an upstart who was given free reign so long as he kept turning out mind-blowing work that was miles ahead of the competition. Now that she thought about it, she remembered hearing the Media girls squealing over him on his first day, when he'd worn a suit and tie, black on black. Now she understood their response. But she knew immediately that they had no chance with the man standing before her.
A man with the balls to wear a kilt to work and the physique to pull it off was already in a different universe than the catty salesgirls who couldn't pick Star-Lord out of a line-up.
“Yeah, but when you say it like that, I feel like Aragorn.”
“And that's a bad thing?”
His grin broke wide, showing wolfish white teeth. “You must be Melissa Martin.”
“How'd you know?”
“Because you're the only woman in this building who looks like Wonder Woman, knows Lord of the Rings, and
Similar Books
