Professor Feelgood (Page 32)

“Don’t worry about me,” I say, ignoring the pounding behind my left eyeball. “I’m sure everyone’s looking forward to meeting our special guest. Perhaps we should begin with introductions.”

“Of course.” Mr. Whip glances around the table, as if he’d forgotten about the small audience watching our exchange. “Everyone, please give a warm welcome to our Professor Feelgood, Jacob Stone.”

Everyone applauds and waves, and I don’t miss the appraising looks Jake’s receiving from the group, Sidney included. Shawna in particular looks like she’s having a hot flash, and I’m not talking about in her face. I almost feel sorry for her. There’s nothing more disappointing than lusting over a man, only to find out he has the personality of an ill-tempered Wolverine.

As if to prove my point, Jake reacts to the wave of warmth thrown at him with an awkward facial expression that I’m guessing wants to become a smile when it grows up. It’s accompanied by a muttered, “Hi.”

Wow. Huge effort there.

Not deterred by his aloofness, Serena comes over to shake his hand. “A pleasure, Mr. Stone.”

Jake gives her a nod. “Likewise. Call me Jake.”

Mr. Whip gestures to me. “And of course as you’ve no doubt guessed, this is the young lady who’s responsible for bringing your talent to our attention, Asha Tate. It must be nice for you two to finally meet in person.”

“Yes.” I plaster on a smile and grudgingly hold out my hand. “Welcome, Mr. Stone.”

Man, it feels so wrong to show him respect. My teenage self is in a corner somewhere, rocking and whispering, “Ew,” over and over again.

“Oh, come now, Miss Tate. Why so formal?” Jake wraps his fingers around mine then turns to Mr. Whip. “Didn’t you hear? Asha and I are old friends.”

“You are?” Mr. Whip raises his eyebrows.

Serena joins him in giving me a quizzical look. “Asha, I thought you two didn’t know each other.”

“Uh …” What the hell is Jake doing? Maybe he didn’t get Jo’s text. Or maybe he did and just can’t resist the temptation to mess with me.

Warning: Shark attack imminent.

Jake lets me flounder for about three seconds before cracking out his wannabe-smile again.

“All I meant is that Miss Tate and I have spoken on the phone so much, I feel like we’ve known each other since we were kids.”

He’s still shaking my hand, and I hate how wet and clammy mine feels wrapped in his. I pull it back and let out a halfhearted laugh as Mr. Whip and Serena smile.

“Haha, it sure does.” I flash a subtle look to Jake as I wipe my hand on my skirt. “Anyway, please excuse me for a few minutes. While you do introductions, I’m going to clean myself up.”

“Of course,” Mr. Whip says, giving my shoulder a sympathy pat. “We’ll keep Mr. Stone entertained until you get back.”

“Great.”

Without looking at Jake, I brush past him to the door then head out.

“Ow, ow, ow.” With every step I take, my knee and hip twinge with pain. When I reach my desk, I rifle through the contents of my purse, desperate to find some painkillers. Glancing back to the conference room, I see everyone is on their feet, milling around Jake in animated excitement. He towers over them, and true to his normal demeanor in social situations, he looks as if he’d like to be anywhere else. He once told me his idea of purgatory would be making small talk with a bunch of strangers for eternity.

In that case, welcome to hell, pal.

After grabbing some Advil and my emergency makeup kit from my purse, I hobble to the ladies’ room. When I get inside and assess my appearance in the mirror, I see why everyone assumed I’d been attacked.

“Oh, mothertrucker.” Not only is my face filthy, my mascara has run everywhere. and my lipstick has morphed into a messy crimson smear that covers half my face. Add to that the small patch of drying blood near my hairline, and my crime-victim image is complete.

I cringe at myself. “You are so busted up, girl.”

As I wring excess water from my hair, I imagine what sort of smartass remarks Jake will have for me when we’re alone. Or maybe he’ll just give me one of those incredulous stares that needs no words at all to make me feel like a pathetic loser. He specializes in those.

After I squeeze as much water from my hair as possible, I grab my comb and drag it through the damp mess. In the process, I must hit whichever spot was bleeding earlier, because I get a sharp pain, followed by the unmistakable feeling of a thick, slow drip working its way down my scalp.

“Oh, come on. Gross.”

I halfheartedly dab at the sore spot as I pop out two Advil one-handed and swallow them down with a handful of water from the tap.

After that, I spend a good thirty seconds scrubbing my face with my hands to remove both the grime and the bad mood that came with it. Of all the ways I imagined my first day as an editor going, this wasn’t one of them. I’d call it a day from hell, but even Satan would think this was several overcooked crap burgers too many.

After turning off the faucet, I give my face one last swipe, push my hair away from my face, and straighten up. I almost scream when I see a huge figure looming behind me in the mirror.

“Jake! Shit! What the hell?” How did he get in here so quietly? Is being a Ninja-Douche a thing?

He pulls a bunch of paper towels from the dispenser and hands them to me. “Were you really mugged?”

“I already told you I wasn’t.”

“Then what happened to you?”

I put my weight on the leg that isn’t throbbing and pat my face dry. “Rough crowd at the coffee cart. Now, please get out.”

He moves forward. “You’re hurt.”

“I’m fine.”

He frowns as he gazes at a spot near my hairline. “You’re clearly not fine, genius. You’re bleeding.” He grabs a paper towel and presses it to my head.

“Jacob, what are you––?”

“Could you shut up for five seconds and hold still?” He steps forward and slides one hand around the back of my neck as he presses the wadded paper harder against my head. The action is so unexpected, and his proximity so alien, I instinctively try to move away, but the bathroom counter prevents my retreat.

“Don’t move,” he orders, voice low. “We need pressure on the wound, not you being an idiot.”

“Your face is an idiot,” I mumble. Please, painkillers, kick in. The sooner the better.

“Oh, reverting to the old ‘your face’ insults? Are we nine again?”

“Some insults never go out of style. ‘Your face’ works in any situation.”

“You’re ridiculous.”

“Your face is ridiculous. See?”

He pulls the paper away from my head and gently parts my hair, looking for the damage.

“So, if you weren’t mugged, how did this happen? Don’t tell me you just went ass-over-head of your own volition.”

I try to keep my features impassive. “No comment.”

He chuckles. “Damn, woman, you’re clumsy. I remember one time, you tripped over your own feet in the school cafeteria.”

“Yes, and I remember you laughing so loudly, everyone knew about it and joined in mocking me.”

He glances down at me with a smirk. “If you thought that was my fault and wasn’t due to the spectacular leaping spread-eagle you attempted, then you’re not remembering it right.” He finishes his examination of my scalp and presses a fresh paper towel over the wound. “The good news is, you don’t need stitches. The bad news is, the injury isn’t severe enough to cause a major personality change. The worst you’ll get is a headache.”