The Fine Print: Chapter 6

The last week has been hell. It’s taken all my willpower to make it through my shifts at the salon because I’m tired from worrying. I’ve been waiting for the other shoe to drop because it’s only a matter of time before the Creators call me out on my proposal.

My worst nightmare came at the most unexpected time when I received an ill-fated summons from Rowan Kane. His single-lined email didn’t give away much.

Your presence is required at my office tomorrow at 8 a.m. sharp. R.G.K.

I’m not sure what’s more shocking. The fact that he emailed me demanding my presence on a Saturday morning or the way he signed an email so casually with three initials.

I call Regina to explain the circumstances of why I will be late to work. She lets me know that she’s already aware of my meeting before hanging up.

Damn. I’m totally in trouble.

I rush through my morning routine and ride my skateboard through the Catacombs so I can make it to the meeting on time.

My sneakers squeak as I run into the lobby of Rowan’s private office suite. It’s hidden behind one-way mirrored windows that look out at Story Street and Princess Cara’s Castle.

The door to Rowan’s office remains shut. His secretary, Martha, points at an empty chair beside her desk. I recognize her from my visits with Brady.

My strawberry print dress puffs around me as I plop into the seat. I decided to go for an innocent until proven guilty look today.

Martha offers me a small cup of water. “Do I have you to thank for his good mood this morning?”

I gasp in mock shock. “Don’t tell me you’re referring to Mr. Kane. He wouldn’t know a good mood if he was overdosing on Valium.” I take a sip of water to refresh my parched throat.

Her eyes glitter. “You’re trouble.”

“And late,” Rowan calls out.

I turn in my seat, making the water in my cup slosh. I’m about to correct him on the fact that he is the one who is running late but I somehow forget the entire English language when I get a look at him.

Rowan in a suit is my kind of corporate kryptonite. Today, the custom royal blue fabric hugs his body like someone sewed the material onto him. His dark brown hair is styled without a single hair out of line and his stubble is nonexistent during this early morning hour. The ocean blue material highlights the dips and curves of every single muscle, like waves of water I want to drown in.

I let out the tiniest sigh that makes his secretary smile at her computer screen.

All the attraction is sucked out of me once his hardened gaze crashes into mine. The shadows in his eyes douse the small flame in my chest.

I grab my phone from my dress pocket. “I was on time. Right?” I look over at Martha for approval.

She remains silent as she focuses all her attention on cleaning out her junk mail inbox. The betrayal.

“Follow me.” Rowan steps away from the door to give me space to enter.

I rise from the chair and grab my backpack off the floor. His gaze lingers on my puffy tulle sleeves before eying the rest of my dress like he wants to burn the fabric. His scowl only deepens once his eyes land on my cherry red sneakers.

I click the heels together twice with a smile.

His eyes snap toward mine. My cheeks heat from the look on his face.

Is that yearning in his gaze or intense dislike?

Let’s hope for the first while expecting the latter.

Whatever lingers in his eyes disappears as he blinks and removes any trace of emotion. He turns in a huff, giving me a prime view of his firm bubble butt. I pause and look because I am a warm-blooded human after all.

No man in power should possess a body like that. It should be considered a corporate crime to look that good while wearing a suit.

I shake my head and follow him into his domain. Rowan’s office is a complete contrast from his personality. The vintage space reflects the romantic charm of Dreamland with crown molding and pale-yellow walls. It reminds me of something I’d find in one of my regency novels, with white wainscoting and elaborate wood furniture carved with an artist’s touch.

Rowan frowns, sticking out like a thundercloud on a bright summer day. He stands by his desk and presses his clenched fists against the top. “Sit.” He takes a seat in his leather wingback chair.

The dominance emanating off him makes it difficult to take deep breaths of air. I settle into the chair across from his desk, crossing and uncrossing my legs as he grabs papers from a file drawer.

“Do you need to use the restroom?” His face remains blank.

“What?”

“Bathroom?” He grunts, pointing toward a door in the corner of the office. “You keep moving around.”

“Oh no!” My cheeks heat. “Just trying to get comfortable.”

“Don’t set yourself up for failure like that.”

A laugh escapes me before I have a chance to stop it. The side of his mouth lifts a whole quarter of a centimeter before dropping again.

Honestly, what does it take for someone like him to smile? Stealing candy from babies? Blood sacrifices? Watching live feeds of families having their homes foreclosed on? I need to know.

He slides the file over to me. “Here’s your new contract. It’s quite similar to your previous one with The Magic Wand Salon.”

My mouth drops open. “I’m sorry. A contract?!”

When people are fired from Dreamland, are they given a contract to never come back? How exactly does this whole thing work?

He sighs as if I’m inconveniencing him. “You’ll be joining the Creators’ team effective immediately.”

The room spins around me. I place a hand against his desk for stability. “I’m what?! Joining the Creators’ team?”

He blinks at me. “This annoying habit of repeating everything back to me is a waste of time and oxygen.”

“Excuse me?” I rear back. “First off, I have every right to be confused. I thought you were about to fire me!”

This time his face shifts from a neutral stare to something that translates into You’re the dumbest person I’ve had the displeasure of being around. “You’re getting a job promotion.”

How did I go from tearing apart the entire Nebula Land ride to getting a job offer with the most elite employees in all of Dreamland? This has to be some kind of payback for wasting everyone’s time with my submission.

“How?”

The vein on his forehead makes an appearance. “Do you always feel the need to ask so many questions?”

“Do you always feel the need to be evasive and curt in everything you do?”

He proves my point by remaining silent. I’m tempted to knock his head around like a busted vending machine until I get some answers.

He taps the top of the file. “Your Nebula Land submission was rather bold. Not many people dare to critique a billion-dollar investment.”

“I submitted it while I was drunk!” I blurt out.

He blinks at me. The only noise I hear is the rush of blood pounding in my ears.

Oh God. Why did I admit that?! I rub a sweaty palm down my face.

His lip curls. The look on his face makes me want to curl into a fetal position. “Will this be a habit while you’re on the clock?”

I shake my head so fast, I’m hit with a wave of dizziness. “Oh no! I rarely drink. It was a stupid idea to help me unwind—”

He lifts his hand. “Save me the monologue. I don’t care.”

Now it’s my turn to blink. Rowan might be a man of few words but they serve their purpose at making me feel like an idiot without actually calling me an idiot. It must be his superpower.

I smile to ease the tension between us. “But I’m guessing you liked my idea or else you wouldn’t be offering me a job.”

“My general feelings on the matter are irrelevant. I make decisions based on facts and years of fine-tuned expertise.”

The air escapes my lungs like a deflating balloon. Seriously, was this man not held enough as a baby? There’s no other explanation for his coldness.

That’s not fair. You’ve heard the stories about his mother…

I choke on the weird feeling squeezing my neck. “You want me to work as a Creator permanently?”

“Nothing here is permanent. Your job is contingent on your performance, so as long as it meets my standards, then you can consider yourself employed.”

Oh my God. This was definitely not a part of Claire’s plan. Self-doubt trickles in, erasing my happiness. I was supposed to submit a proposal and earn a stripe of courage, not be hired as a full-time Creator. I might be creative but I’m not that creative.

Dreamland Creators are legendary. They’ve made history for their inventions and were even invited to the White House a few years back. I haven’t earned the right to serve as part of the team. Plus, I don’t fit the typical Creator formula. They’re people who graduated from expensive universities and attended specialty internships across the globe—a mix of architects, artists, engineers, writers, and more. I’m a woman with a community college degree who works at a kid’s salon. I couldn’t work on a team filled with the best talent around the world.

There’s no way I could do this. “I’m sorry. I can’t accept your offer.”

His eyes narrow. “I didn’t ask a yes or no question.”

My jaw drops.

He slides the contract toward my side of the desk. “You can take your time and review the paperwork but you’re not leaving this office without signing the contract.”

I stare at my hands, wondering if they would fit around Rowan’s tree trunk of a neck. “This is the twenty-first century. You might be my boss but I won’t let you tell me what to do.”

“That in itself is a contradiction.”

I fist the fabric of my dress to avoid doing something stupid like punching his pretty face. “Are you always this cold?”

Rowan stares at me in silence. He rubs his sharp jaw in a way that sends my stomach into a flurry of butterflies. It draws my attention to his plump lips.

Hello! Earth to Zahra!

I glare at the contract. Rowan has every right to fire me after my mockery of a proposal. But instead, he offered me the most coveted job in all of Dreamland. I’d be stupid to turn this down.

Not that you have an option anyway.

I swipe the contract off the table in defeat.

He plucks a pen from the glass holder. “Sign on the dotted line.”

I reach out for the pen. Our fingers brush, and heat shoots up my arm like flames licking my skin. I pull back and drop the pen.

Rowan looks down at his hand like it offended him. Great. Glad to know I elicit that kind of facial expression from him.

It shouldn’t matter either way. He’s your boss.

I grab the pen off the desk and refocus my attention on the contract. My heart slams against my rib cage as I reread the bold numbers at the top until they blur together.

I turn the page toward him and point at the salary. “Is this a typo?”

“Do I look like a man who makes typos?”

“But there’s a ten-thousand-dollar raise.”

“At least your eyesight isn’t as impaired as your judgment.”

I should be angry at his insult but all I can do is laugh. The kinds of things he says with a straight face impress the hell out of me, and I can’t help feeling oddly attracted to his blunt nature. I blame my exposure to Pride and Prejudice at a young and impressionable age.

He stares at me with wide eyes. His expression has me going into another fit of laughter. There’s something about breaking through Rowan’s icy exterior that I find entertaining. I’m not sure what the hell is wrong with me, but I find his matter-of-fact comments funny rather than off-putting. They’re awkward and stilted like he isn’t comfortable doing anything besides barking out orders.

Yeah. There’s definitely something wrong with me.