Looking for the Prologue? Go here. Chapter 1? Go here.

Chapter 2

Three Weeks Later

Maci fumbles with the lock before the door finally swings open. Our new office space, waiting for life to be breathed into it, smells like dust and possibility. There are boxes stacked taller than I am, furniture cocooned in plastic wrap, and painting supplies scattered everywhere. “Ready to tackle this mess?” I ask, grinning at Maci. She nods enthusiastically, already hauling a box towards the reception area. I dive into my office, wrestling with my desk and bookshelves like they’re wild animals. We’re still laughing and joking about paint colors and book launches when there’s a sharp knock.

A moment later, in struts the embodiment who shall hence forth be known as the Wicked Witch of Wacker. Compared to this snooty nuisance, Ben Maddox might as well be a teddy bear. Her nose crinkles in disgust at our delightful mess. Her hair is yanked back into a ponytail so tight it could launch a rocket, and her lips are pursed like she’s just sucked on a particularly sour lemon.

“Can I help you?” I ask, as she remains glued to the doorway, her glare still burning holes into my soul. “I am Angel, executive assistant to Mr. Maddox across the hall. The racket you’re making is wreaking havoc on our customers and disrupting our business,” she snaps, like it’s the most tragic event of the century.

I flash her my sweetest smile. “Are you that bad at your job that people in an office down the hall from you- who can’t possibly be making the amount a noise you claim- distract you enough that you can’t get your job done?” I ask, earning a muffled snort from Maci.

Angel’s face flushes an impressive shade of crimson. “I’ll be speaking to Mr. Maddox about this,” she huffs, spinning on her designer heel so fast I’m surprised she doesn’t drill herself into the floor.

“Looking forward to it!” I call after her retreating back. “Tell him that I’ve missed his sunny disposition!”

Maci collapses against a half-assembled bookshelf, giggling. “You know,” Maci says, composing herself and swiping at her eyes, “if this whole publishing thing doesn’t work out, you can always fall back on diplomacy.”

I grab another box and head towards my office, trying and failing to hide my grin. “Might as well quit now and join the UN,” I say.

I start hauling books towards my office. It’s cramped and smells like a cardboard factory, but it’s ours.

We’re a tornado of energy, splitting tasks like we actually know what we’re doing. Maci stakes out the reception area, hauling around boxes with surprising strength for someone who survives on a diet of kale and yoga. Her short blonde hair bounces with every move, and she looks entirely too cheerful for someone working this hard.

I head straight into my office, eyeing the mountains of work I’ve created for myself. My bookshelves, sturdy and about as big as a dinosaur, taunt me from the corner. I try to drag them across the room, barely budging them an inch. “Help, I’ve been trapped under a pile of my own ambition,” I call out, flopping dramatically against the nearest stack of boxes.

Maci appears in the doorway, hands on hips, surveying my lack of progress. “Are you seriously stuck already?”

“No,” I say, the picture of innocence. “Just testing gravity.”

She tosses a wad of bubble wrap at my head. “It’s working.” She disappears back into the reception area, and I get serious about taming my unruly office.

I wrestle the bookshelves into submission, pausing every few minutes to catch my breath and shoot off a sarcastic remark about how child labor laws are unfairly keeping us from hiring tiny interns to do this work for us. Obviously, I don’t condone child labor, don’t come at me.

When I’ve managed to get everything more or less in place, I start unpacking books, stacking them on the shelves with no particular system other than they look pretty.

The office is slowly taking shape, though it’s far from finished. My desk, an elegant fake antique when it’s not in pieces, sprawls in the middle of the room like it just lost a fight with a giant wood chipper. I grab the instructions and squint at them like they’re written in a foreign language. Who knew being the boss meant actual work?

“Maci,” I yell, hoping she’s not too buried in her own chaos. “Why did we decide to be our own moving crew?”

Her voice drifts back, slightly muffled by the tower of boxes. “Because we’re broke and ambitious?”

“One out of two isn’t bad,” I mutter, attacking the desk with renewed vigor.

Maci’s working away, humming to herself as she turns the front office from a dump into a polished, professional-looking space. It’s not too long before her progress shames me into productivity. I double down on the setup, finding an inner strength I didn’t know existed—probably the spirit of some long-dead author—before dragging my desk into its rightful place. I collapse into the chair, covered in a fine layer of dust, just as Maci pokes her head in.

“You’re still alive!” she exclaims with mock surprise.

“Barely,” I say, but I’m grinning. My office may look like a mess, but it’s a creative mess. I can already imagine it bustling with nervous first-time authors, boxes of newly printed books, and maybe even a few chairs.

Maci perches on one of the yet-to-be-assembled seat boxes, examining the pile of clutter and general chaos. “This place is going to be amazing,” she says. I see her surveying her work with pride. She’s put the reception desk in place, organized the chaos, and even started hanging some art on the walls. She’s definitely winning in the unspoken competition to finish first.

I follow her gaze, trying to envision the chaos as a well-oiled machine of a publishing company. “This place is going to be amazing,” I agree, with more conviction than breath.

“You know, after we met him the other day, I Googled him by the way,” Maci says suddenly, unrolling a ‘Girl Boss’ poster that absolutely belongs in her office, not mine. “Ben Maddox. Harvard Business School. Featured in Forbes’ 30 Under 40. Apparently, he’s some kind of financial genius.”

“Sounds thrilling,” I deadpan, digging through paint samples. “I’ve chosen ‘Gentle Lavender’ for my office. What do you think?”

——————————————–

A few hours later, I’m staring at walls that can only be described as ‘offensive.’ The lavender I’d carefully selected has somehow transformed into a violent purple that assaults my eyeballs. My hair is pulled into a messy bun; paint splattered across my cheeks and old Columbia t-shirt.

I’m horrified at the mess that screams “unicorn massacre purple.” The paint, which looked perfectly lavender in the can, has dried into something that would make Barney the dinosaur say, “That’s a bit much.”

“What the hell?” I groan, dropping my roller into the paint tray with a splash that decorates my already paint-splattered jeans with more purple polka dots.

“So much for my vision of a sophisticated, professional office,” I mutter, running a hand through my hair and promptly streaking it with purple. “Maybe we can tell people it’s an artistic statement.”

Maci pokes her head in, takes one look at the walls, and bursts into laughter. “Oh my God, Lex. It looks like Grimace threw up in here!”

“Thanks for the support,” I say dryly. “I was going for ‘understated creative genius.’ I got ‘five-year-old with a crayon collection.’”

“We could always repaint,” Maci suggests, stepping fully into the room and examining my disaster. Her own office, I note with mild irritation, looks perfect with its crisp white walls and tasteful gray accents.

“No, we can’t.” I say, resigned. “I need to hire a professional. Someone handsome and charming.” I say, the author in me taking over.

We’re both laughing when a throat clears behind us. I whip around, grabbing the paint roller, raising it like a weapon, only to find myself face-to-face with Ben Maddox. He stands in my doorway like he owns the entire building, not just the office next door. His crisp navy suit is a stark contrast to my paint-splattered ensemble, and his eyes flick over the purple monstrosity behind me with barely concealed disdain.

“I see the circus has come to town,” he says, his voice as cool as his gaze.

I lower my paint roller, but only slightly. “Funny, I don’t recall sending you an invitation.”

“My assistant has informed me that you two have been distracting her with your noise.” He says in a tone that is both formal and arrogant.

“Ahh yes, Angel.” I say in my best innocent voice. “Awful personality, that one. Tell her she would get more work done if she removed the stick stuck up her-”

“—her ass.” Maci finishes for me, which is shocking since she never swears. She actually blushes after saying it.

Ben’s eyebrows shoot up, but I swear I catch the tiniest twitch at the corner of his mouth before his face settles back into its default setting: Corporate Robot.

“How eloquent,” he says, adjusting his perfectly knotted tie. “Is that the literary genius that’s made you a bestseller?”

Huh, he’s researched me. Color me surprised. And purple.

“Of course. Do your best not to fawn all over my greatness.” I reply in a pompous voice meant to mirror his own.

His eyes narrow, and I can almost hear the gears turning in his perfectly styled head. “I’d like to remind you that some of us are trying to run legitimate businesses here.”

I gasp dramatically, pressing a paint-covered hand to my chest. “As opposed to our illegitimate book trafficking ring? I’m wounded, Maddox.”

“What I mean,” he says, jaw clenching, “is that your… redecorating… is creating a disturbance.”

I glance at the purple walls, then back at him, and something mischievous takes over. I step closer, paint roller still in hand. “You know, this color would look amazing in your office. Really brighten up all that corporate drabness.”

His eyes widen slightly as he takes a step back, like I’m wielding a weapon instead of home decor. “Stay away from me with that.”

“What’s wrong, Ben? Afraid of a little color in your life?” I take another step toward him, the roller dripping ominously.

Maci clears her throat. “Lex, maybe don’t threaten the neighbor with paint on day one?”

I sigh and lower my weapon of mass decoration. “Fine. But only because you asked so nicely.” I turn back to Ben. “Is there anything else we can help you with? Perhaps a personality transplant?”

“For Angel’s sake,” he starts in a resigned tone, “please keep it down.”

“Listen, you know damn well that we weren’t making loud noises or causing any disturbance whatsoever.” I say, beginning to lose my temper. “Angel has been on us all day; from the moment we arrived. Do not make me take this to the building management. They will not take kindly to your business bullying my own. I hear they take harassment seriously. Keep her away from us.”

For a moment, Ben actually looks surprised, like he wasn’t expecting me to stand up to him so directly. His gray eyes narrow slightly, and I can practically see him reassessing me.

“Fine,” he says finally, his voice clipped. “I’ll speak with Angel.”

“Thank you,” I say, managing to sound both gracious and smug at the same time. It’s a talent.

Ben turns to leave but pauses in the doorway. “By the way,” he says, glancing back at my purple walls, “they make color-correcting primers for… mistakes like that.”

And then he’s gone, leaving me standing there with a dripping paint roller and the distinct feeling that I’ve just been insulted by a walking Brooks Brothers catalog.

“Well,” Maci says after a beat of silence, “that was… intense.”

I snort, turning back to my purple nightmare. “That wasn’t intense. That was just Ben being Ben—insufferable and annoyingly right about my paint choice.”

“I don’t know,” Maci says thoughtfully, tilting her head. “There was definitely something there.”

“Yeah, mutual hatred,” I mutter, dropping my roller into the tray with a splash.

“If you say so,” Maci sings, retreating back to her perfectly painted office.

I stare at my purple walls, sighing heavily. I hate to admit it, but Ben’s right—I need a color-correcting primer. And probably professional help. For the walls, I mean. Definitely just for the walls.

“Maci!” I call out. “Do you think the building allows exorcisms? Because I think my office is possessed by the ghost of Prince!”

Her laughter floats back to me, and I can’t help but smile despite my paint disaster. We may have the neighbor from corporate hell, but at least we have each other. And soon, hopefully, an office that doesn’t look like it was decorated by a color-blind kindergartner.

I spend the next hour trying to salvage what I can of my office, but eventually admit defeat. The purple walls mock me with their vibrance, and I decide they can stay for now. After all, I’m a creative professional. This is just… expressing my unique vision. Or something.

By the time we finish setting up the essentials—desks, chairs, and enough coffee-making equipment to fuel a small army—it’s well past dinnertime. My stomach grumbles loudly enough that Maci hears it from across the room.

“Food?” she suggests, already reaching for her phone. “I’ll order Chinese.”

“You’re a lifesaver,” I say, collapsing into my newly assembled chair. It wobbles precariously, threatening to dump me onto the floor. “And maybe add ‘functional furniture’ to our shopping list.”

While Maci orders enough food to feed us for the next three days, I stare out the window at the Chicago skyline. The lights are starting to come on, twinkling like stars against the darkening sky. Despite the chaos, the purple walls, and the uptight neighbor, I feel a sense of pride swelling in my chest. We did it. We’re actually here, in a real office, with our names on the door and everything.

“Hey,” I call out to Maci, “we should celebrate.”

She pokes her head in, phone still pressed to her ear. “Twenty minutes for the food,” she says, covering the mouthpiece. “And celebrate how? I’m pretty sure my body is 90% paint fumes and sweat right now.”

“I have fruit punch,” I declare, pulling a bottle from my oversized tote bag. Don’t judge. I’m on a tight budget thanks to our new office space. “I came prepared.”

“Of course you did,” Maci laughs, ending her call and joining me by the window. “Glasses?”

I pull out two paper cups from our earlier coffee run. “Only the finest dinnerware for us.”

“Classy,” she says, taking one of the cups. “Just like our publishing house.”

I manage to open the fruit punch without taking spilling any on me—a personal victory—and pour generous amounts into our paper cups. Because I have the coordination of a toddler, the juice threatens to overflow, just like my emotions right now.

“To us,” I say, raising my cup. “To surviving purple walls and corporate assholes.”

“To us,” Maci echoes, tapping her cup against mine. “And to bestsellers and bigger offices.”

We sip our fruit punch as the city lights flicker on below us. For a moment, everything feels perfect. We’ve made it this far, against all odds. What’s a little paint disaster and an annoying neighbor in the grand scheme of things?

The sound of a door closing down the hall reminds me that we’re not alone in the building. Most of the financial firm’s employees have left for the day, but I wonder if Ben is still there, working late, being all serious and corporate in his perfectly tailored suit.

“Do you think they ever have fun over there?” I ask, nodding toward the wall we share with the financial firm.

Maci shrugs, taking another sip of champagne. “Maybe their idea of fun is different from ours. Like, spreadsheet parties or dividend celebrations.”

I snort, nearly choking on my drink. “Stop, you’re killing me.”

“I’m serious! Maybe they get really wild and use colored tabs in their binders.”

We’re both giggling now, the stress of the day melting away with each sip of cheap bubbly. By the time our food arrives, we’re sprawled on the floor of the reception area, surrounded by empty paint cans and assembly instructions.

“This is the life,” I sigh, digging into my lo mein. “Five-star dining in our five-star office.”

Professionally Unprofessional releases on June 1st, but you can grab your copy here: