One Bossy Date – Bossy Seattle Suits Read Online Nicole Snow

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However, I feel a biting need to inform you I’m not an ad critic. I’m also not even a real copywriter.

I’m actually not remotely qualified for anything you want me to do here. Neither is Jenn, probably, though she’s way more qualified than me.

Rob seems like the guy you really need.

I still don’t understand why you want us spearheading huge, sweeping changes to your marketing. Unless there’s another reason that has something to do with me seeing you naked?

Thanks,

Annoyed Piper

My jaw tightens like a vise as I tap out a reply.

Miss Sunshine,

You’re the only person I’ve ever employed who knows I could make another billion dollars with my own X-rated calendar.

Thank you for picturing me naked again.

You’re also the only person on the entire marketing team qualified for this assignment, and Miss Landers is qualified by association.

Your marketing education comes from experience rather than a classroom. You know how to get views and please people in a rapidly changing content environment.

You also had a conniption fit when I tried to promote you. You’re okay with telling me things I don’t want to hear and you’re not afraid to stand up to me.

I need that kind of honesty covering my weak spots—even if you’re exceptionally good at pissing me off.

Thanks,

Endowed Gentleman

If she wants to keep bringing up that clusterfuck anti-meet-cute, so can I.

I wonder if it’ll scare her off, but her response is immediate.

Cocksure “Gentleman,”

Gentlemen don’t lie, and the pissing off is mutual.

Are you done annoying me yet? I have a lot of work on my plate and my boss is a tyrant. He might dock my pay or send me a naked calendar if I don’t get this done.

YUCK.

I also can’t help wondering what kind of timeline he’s looking at for turning things around. This is a lot for two people, you know. Even Rob pitching in won’t expedite things much.

This old content pile is so big I wonder if these ads go back twenty years. Do they?

Thanks,

Not Your Sunshine. Ever.

Oh, hell.

I’m horribly tempted to track down the best boudoir photographer in Seattle and send her a calendar she can sneak into bed.

If only Keenan wouldn’t have an aneurysm.

I settle for sending one last reply just to remind her who’s in charge.

Little Liar,

Just get it done as fast as you can. Pinpoint what’s relevant to our direction now and ignore anything made before 2012.

I’ll check in with you soon to see what you’ve accomplished.

And go home at a sensible hour. There’s no point in losing sleep over this so soon.

Thanks,

B.W.

PS Your seven-year-old reaction to my calendar idea tells me how much you want it. Go YUCK yourself.

Enough of this fuckery.

I’m going home early today because I have to get the hell out of here. Precious distance so I can get her out of my head. I log out and shut down my computer.

My phone lights up with a text from her.

No greeting. No closing.

Just, you’re so yucking full of yourself.

I don’t respond with all the ways I could fill her.

Something tells me that will just expedite our descent into hell.

When I walk out of the building, Fyo waits outside, parked on the curb and waiting like always.

I climb in the back seat, holding in a growl.

“Any news from Vanessa?” I ask.

“No. Nothing to worry about.” Fyo chuckles and pulls onto the road. “Have I ever let you down?”

Hardly.

And for the faintest second, I wish my new star marketer were just a bearish Russian man with a taste for Versace shirts.

Life would be so much easier.

9

Nothing Good After Midnight (Piper)

King Shameless left us a cloud folder from hell.

It’s more than two thousand documents deep and still loading as I sip my coffee a few days later.

“How are we going to get through this before we turn eighty?” Jenn asks.

The sinking pit in my stomach says we won’t, but we’ll try.

I need to earn my keep since this job is the first breathing space with Dad’s bills in years. I skim through ten thirty-second videos, mostly Great Recession era offers begging people to snap up cheap rooms.

They’re about as exciting as watching an ant crawl up a wall.

Only nine hundred and ninety more to go.

“Jenn, if it’s obviously ancient, just watch the first five seconds. This crap is way too outdated to be useful.”

“You want to do this ten at a time?” she asks.

“Do you know a better way?”

“No. I kind of took this job expecting to write copy or maybe do some light video editing... I never really expected to quality check a thousand ads for ideas to solve Winthrope’s review problem.”

The ads are short and mostly irrelevant, thank God. We manage to pick up the pace when we’re over a hundred in.

By noon, we’ve made a tiny dent in the workload.

Jenn groans at an old ad featuring disgraced Hollywood starlet Evangeline Triton. “Oh my God, isn’t this the actress who went crazy on her hero son? What did we do to deserve this? None of this is remotely helpful.”


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