Love Off The Rocks
By Denise Wells
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About this ebook
Work retreat?
No problem. I, Magdalena Stratton, am the epitome of a team player. For the most part.
Meet the new boss?
Absolutely. I can be charming when I want to be. And this retreat will give me two whole days to suck up for the promotion that should already be mine.
The problem?
The new boss is my ex, Devlin Campbell. A name close enough to devil to fit. The one I've never stopped thinking about. Or hating. We've been paired up in a survival skills exercise. Now I'm not sure I can survive being this close to him without admitting how I still feel. To myself or him.
Denise Wells
Denise has been reading since before she could talk. And to this day, escaping into a book is her go-to activity before anything else. She likes to write about sassy women and semi-flawed alpha-esque men (hard on the outside and just a little soft on the inside.) Denise's female characters always have strong friendships, potty mouths, and like to drink-a lot. Denise is loyal to a fault, a bit too sarcastic, blindingly optimistic, and pretty freakin' happy with life overall. If she couldn't be a writer, she'd be a singer in a classic rock band. Right after she learned to carry a tune. She has more purses than days in the month, an obsession with colored ink pens, and a slightly unhealthy bracelet habit. Home is in the Pacific Northwest where she lives with six special needs Siberian Huskies and a husband (BW) who has the patience and tolerance of a saint. And, lest she forget, Denise also lives with too many to count characters inside her head, who will eventually have their stories told.
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Love Off The Rocks - Denise Wells
Introduction
Work retreat?
No problem. I, Magdalena Stratton, am the epitome of a team player. For the most part.
Meet the new boss?
Absolutely. I can be charming when I want to be. And this retreat will give me two whole days to suck up for the promotion that should already be mine.
The problem?
The new boss is my ex, Devlin Campbell. A name close enough to devil to fit. The one I’ve never stopped thinking about. Or hating. We’ve been paired up in a survival skills exercise. Now I’m not sure I can survive being this close to him without admitting how I still feel. To myself or him.
1
Mags
Tell me you’re bringing at least one cute outfit?
My roommate, Tricia, sits on my bed watching me pack for a company trip. When I say company, I mean smallish startup internet service provider (ISP) on the West Coast that has just merged with a larger small startup ISP from the East Coast.
And when I say trip, I mean some stupid glamping type thing in the middle of the Olympic National Forest meant to bring us all together like one big happy family. And by one big happy family, I mean: yuck.
Why would I? One, I don’t have anyone I need to impress. Two, they said we could, and I quote, ‘kick back, connect, and let the creative juices flow,’ so I ask you, what do I need cute for when I have leggings?
Mags,
she scolds. Have I taught you nothing in the years we’ve known one another?
You’ve taught me plenty, and I appreciate it all. But you’re a makeup artist, and you have to look good all the time. I write ad copy. No one cares how I look. They just care how I make their shit sound.
Still, when she’s not looking, I throw in a nicer pair of jeans and a cute boho top, in addition to what I’ve already got in my bag, which is a lot. It’s not that I’m over packing. It’s just that I won’t know what I’ll be in the mood to wear. What if I wake up and feel fat and leggings are an automatic no because I’m self-conscious about my ass? Leaving me with jeans as the only other choice. Then I have to decide if I want skinny jeans or boyfriend jeans? Cuffed bottom or straight leg?
I really hate traveling for this very reason. I believe in comfort where my clothes are concerned, but only if I’m staying home. If other people are going to see me, then it must be comfort with a modicum of style. I’ll bitch all day long about comfort over fashion, but I’m living a lie. I want to be the girl who can effortlessly throw on any old thing and exude enough confidence that I still look hot. But it takes a lot of forethought to look this carefree and casual.
What about the promotion?
Tricia asks.
What about it?
You want to make a good impression because you want the promotion,
Tricia says.
No way is my promotion going to be based on what I wear,
I say, even knowing as I do it might not be true.
Uh, absolutely it might be.
Why?
I whine.
She hands me a basic black dress, one that’s made from some crazy non-wrinkle material, and a pair of ballet flats. Here, bring these, just in case.
Fine.
What else do you have in there?
she asks.
An extra pair of underwear for each day, because what if I fall in a river and my pair for that day doesn’t dry in time and I’m left a pair short by the end of the trip?
Yeah, cause that’s likely,
Tricia says drily.
I roll my eyes at her. Socks, in case my feet get cold. Hair ties, baseball hat, maybe sun hat.
I put it on my head. What do you think, sun hat, no sun hat?
I pull it back off my head.
Ditch the sun hat.
I toss it toward my closet. Okay, I think that’s it.
How many pairs of leggings do you have?
Tricia asks.
Four.
How many days are you gone?
Three.
Lose two leggings.
She rummages through my bag until she finds them. And how many pairs of jeans?
Three.
Not including the extra pair I threw in.
She pulls one pair out. Why the maxi skirt?
she asks, pulling that out as well.
I shrug.
So, four bottoms for three days? And we haven’t even gotten to the tops yet. You know if you’d just let me mix and match a few things, you could have, like, seven cute outfits from four pieces of clothing.
No need, I’ve got this covered,
I say, zipping up my bag.
It barely closes.
I chose a duffel bag because I thought it looked more casual and not so high maintenance. But every so often, at times like this, I wonder if I really am high maintenance? I start to ask Tricia, then decide against it. Does it matter? I mean, how much will I change at twenty-six years old? And if I am high maintenance, who’s around besides me to care?
Do you have a jacket?
she asks.
Yep.
Toiletries?
Yes.
Okay, want me to drop you at the train station?
Please.
2
Mags
Halfway through the train depot, I realize the folly of packing a duffel bag that I must carry as opposed to just going with a small suitcase I could have wheeled. By the time I reach the train, I’m winded, sweaty, and my shoulders are aching. I find an empty seat, stow my bag, then pull out my earbuds and my e-reader.
I know a few other people are taking this train too, but I don’t know what car they will get on, so I don’t keep an eye out for them. Besides, I’ve been dying to finish this book. It’s the first in a trilogy by an author that I love. And I waited until the author released the other two before starting it. So, I have all three, and I can binge in my downtime through the entire long weekend.
I lose myself in the first chapter and start the second as the conductor calls, All aboard.
I hear someone jump on the train at the last second, panting and stumbling down the aisle. The seats facing me are open, but I’m really hoping no one sits there. I’m a big believer in personal space, so if this person keeps walking on by, that would be—
Hey, Mags, I thought that was you.
Chaz, one of my co-workers, flops into the seat facing mine. I guess if someone had to sit in my space, I’m