“I agree.” She stopped at my window overlooking Eighth Avenue. “I’m not after that reader, but there are subtle tweaks we can make to appeal to women, too. Like you said, we’re going after modern women. The ones who’re tired of reading about the latest nail polish trend or impossible-to-achieve sex positions. The womanwho—”
“Impossible to achieve?” I asked, unable to help the rising corner of my mouth. “Show me yourresearch.”
She came and sat down, rolling her eyes. “I’m just saying, when you print an article on the same topic every month, you’re bound to get a littletoocreative. Do you honestly think the Double-Fisted Flying Squirrel isdoable?”
At the same moment my mouth fell open, my dick twitched. And the scary part was, I wasn’t even sure why. There was nothing sexy about squirrels, but I liked the way her mouth curved when she talked about sex positions. “Thewhat?”
“That’s nothing compared to theUpside DownDouble-Fisted Flying Squirrel,” she added. “You’d have to be a member ofCirque du Soleilto pull thatoff.”
This was about the last conversation I’d expected to be having this morning. I’d been counting on steamrolling some middle-aged man by Friday. I openly gaped at her. “Are you making thisup?”
“We’re getting off track. What I’m trying to say is, there are women out there who want to read about sports or who’d love to learn how to brew their own beer. So why aren’tthey?”
“They are.” My sister gotModern Manevery month, but was that only because of me? I visited her and her husband in the Boston suburbs as much as I could, and they rarely got into specifics about the issues. Libby wasn’t our target audience at all. She ran her own clothing boutique and had a double-wide stroller with kids to put in it. Her clothing staples included expensive leather flats, cardigans, and pearls, and she had a standing appointment for a blowout every week. While I’d been at baseball practice as a kid, she’d “cleaned” houses with our mother as an excuse to spy on rich kids’ violin lessons or tea parties or etiquette classes. I wondered for the first time if she actually enjoyed the articles we printed, or if she’d just been indulging me all thistime.
“I have lots of female friends who read the mag,” I said, “and I’ve heard nocomplaints.”
“You’re not talking to the ones whodon’tread it. They pass overModern Manbecause they don’t know what we have to offer. Because we aren’t marketing to them. Because we openly insultthem.”
Her eyes flickered away with that last part. What she meant was thatIhad openly insulted them, or at least, I was catching all the heat for it. I drummed my fingers on my desk. “I see yourpoint.”
Her perfect posture eased. “Youdo?”
“Yes, but I still don’t know what you’re suggesting. That we print bylines in script font? Incorporate pink onto the cover? Host a bakesale?”
Her jaw ticked. Finally, we were getting somewhere. She’d been way too cool about all of this when she secretly wanted to tell me to fuck off the way she more or less had thatmorning.
“Did you hear a word I just said?” she asked. “This isn’t the fifties, and I’m not trying to turn you into a chick litrag.”
Justin strolled in wearing a shit-eating grin, but that was nothing unusual. It was his default expression. “What’s for lunch?” he asked before he spottedGeorgina.
“Lunch?” she asked, checking her watch. “It’s barelyeleven.”
Justin maneuvered around her boxes and flopped onto the couch. He put an arm along the back. “Yeah, but we need to brainstorm about what we’re going to eat, and that can take up to anhour.”
“Is that so?” Georgina asked, pursing her lips. “Soundsproductive.”
I sliced a finger across my neck to get Justin to shut the fuck up. He always knew exactly how to make things worse. “Give us a minute,Justin.”
Justin raised his palms. “I’m not evenhere.”
“You need a crash course on gender stereotyping,” Georgina said, turning back and picking up the conversation as if Justin wasn’t even there. “Honestly, I’d really hoped the sexism rumors were an exaggeration, but I’m starting to think they’renot.”
“You don’t know me,” I said. “Don’t come in here accusing me of things after a few hours.You’rethe one implying women do nothing but shop all day.” I loved women.Lovedthem. If I was sexist against anyone, it would be men—I’d kick Justin to the curb in a second for a beautiful woman, and Justin would do the same to me. Beyond that, I treated the women in my life like queens.Past andpresent.
“Oh, please. You just suggested we add pink to the cover and call it a day. As if that’s enough to get a woman’sattention—”
“You should listen to him,” Justin chimed in. “If anyone knows how to get a woman’s attention, it’sSeb.”
“Shutup,” I told him before looking back at Georgina. I had no idea if it was Justin’s comment or our arguing, but she’d worked herself into a tizzy. As if she’d just run around the block or escaped to the bathroom for a quickie, her cheeks had gone pink, her eyes narrowed, breathinglabored.
What would she look like, pinned against the locked door of the men’s bathroom, legs circling my waist, lacy black bra peeking out from a crisp button-down, hair messy from my hands as she begged me to finish heroff?
Fuck!
Why was I thinking about sex? I pushed the fantasy out of my mind . . . even though I had a shameful feeling I’d revisit itlater.
“Youneed an education on gender discrimination, and discrimination in general,” I pointed out. “You assume that because I work here and look the way I do, that I have no consideration forwomen—”
