Text Appeal by Amber Roberts EPUB & PDF – eBook Details Online
- Status: Available for Free Download
- Authors: Amber Roberts
- Language: English
- Genre: Friendship Fiction
- Format: PDF / EPUB
- Size: 2 MB
- Price: Free
There comes a time in every woman’s career when the only thing that’ll
make any of it worthwhile is punching out the obnoxious mouth breather who
sits at the desk next to hers. I hadn’t taken that step yet, but it ranked in my
top five favorite fantasies. Walking into the same office, every day, just to get
brushed off—or ignored completely—was enough to cramp anyone’s style.
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It’s only 9:30 a.m. and I’ve
got a year to go until 5.
I punched “Send” on my latest “woe is me” text to Teagan—best friend
since middle school and the coolest person I’d ever know—then tucked my
phone into the desk drawer.
Office jobs, as a rule, completely suck. The grumbling, backstabbing,
and gossip are enough to ruin the idea as a whole. Don’t even get me started
on when the fridge bandit steals your yogurt and cookie bits, and you’re
about two seconds from Raging PMS Land, and the promise of that snack
was the only thing that kept you hanging on.
During one staff meeting, I sneezed every time I was spoken over, and
coughed whenever my ideas were shouted out like they belonged to the dude
with the bigger mouth. The result? A recommendation from my boss that I
“take it easy” for the next day or so and return to work when I was “feeling
up to it.”
Work, eat, sleep, work, eat, sleep. Throw in a few pints of Ben & Jerry’s
and a cheesy supernatural detective show marathon, and you’ve got yourself
a pretty accurate representation of my life.
The back-row boys’ club started up their usual chatter—recaps of their
weekends and chest-beating over Halo achievements (I could have carried the
game with my eyes closed). One of them was clicking his pen. Again. I
plugged in my headphones and cranked the volume. Rage Against the
Machine blared, drowning out the conversation enough for me to get the final
chunk of code written. Nothing too involved, of course—my boobs might get
in the way of writing actual code.
Yet again, I was on basic markup because “it’s better to let the real devs
handle it.” Apparently “self-taught and female” can’t beat “Daddy sent me to
his alma mater because legacy is where it’s at, but I studied project
management because I didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of me getting
the law degree he insisted on.”
A shadow hung over my shoulder. I tugged an earbud loose and glared at
the culprit.
Drew, the pen guy: black jeans (too tight), a button-down shirt (too crisp)
with a perfectly angled collar, and an attitude sharp enough to slice through a
tomato like those As Seen on TV knives.
“You got that markup complete?” Drew asked.
“It’s on its way. I got hung up with—”
He held a single finger in the air—you know, in that way that makes you
want to stab someone in the leg with a pair of rusty kitchen scissors.
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