Page 5 of Man Flu

Five years at Northeastern University, two years playing in the minors, and ten years in the major leagues for two different teams. Plus, his degree is in technology, which makes him a very smart baseball player with no marketing experience.

I stand up from my desk and paper clip the inside of my shirt together, so I’m not on the verging of being inappropriate. I love Mondays. I really, really do.

I make my way into Logan’s cube, finding him setting up his email without IT’s help. I guess it’s not a surprise since he’s tech-savvy, but it’s a good kind of reinforcement I need at the moment.

I rap my knuckles against the plastic lining of his cubicle, and he swings his desk chair around to face me. “How’s it going, boss?” he asks. That’s a lot of confidence right there for being in the office less than ten minutes.

I like it.

“Good, good. I have a few tests we require all interns and temps to take before starting any work. It’s to help us gauge what level of tasks you’ll be comfortable performing. Performing … dear God. Stop. It’s a combination of Word, Excel, PowerPoint, and some basic HTML. You mentioned you’re proficient with those programs, so I’m sure it will be a piece of cake for you.”

“Definitely. Is the test online? Do you have a link you want to send me?”

My head falls to the side. “Why are you starting out as a temp/intern, whatever?” He seems quite advanced to be claiming this junior title.

He smirks and leans back in his chair, crossing one leg over the other. He’s way too hot to be working in this office with all these schmucks. Little pricks of pins and needles pinch my cheeks, and I can only hope I’m not blushing in his presence. He should stop smiling at me like that. “Well, the hiring agency had no permanent jobs available within a thirty-mile radius, but they had this intern position open, and it’s five minutes from where I live, so here we are.”

“But this isn’t a temp-to-perm position. Isn’t that what you’re looking for?” I ask.

“Sure am, and I might just shock the pants off you and make you change your mind,” he says confidently, with a wink.

Holy, no. This man cannot say that stuff to me. That’s arrogant, and I don’t need to be thinking about him taking my pants off …

“We’ll see about that,” I regain my composure and say in my motherly tone that doesn’t belong in the office. I sometimes wonder who I’ve become. Then, I realize it’s obviously my mother showing through.

“I’m just kidding, but, hey, you never know. Someone might pick up and leave, and it could put you in the position to say, ‘Well, Logan does know his stuff, so why not?’ I’m a risk taker.”

That’s hot. No, it’s admirable in a professional way.

“I suppose you never know what might happen,” I tell him, trying my hardest not to stutter. I’m the boss. I need to act like it.

I tap the top of his cube and turn back to my office, forgetting what I even came to say.

“Oh, and yeah, send me that link when you have a second. The IT guy from upstairs already walked me through the setup, and my email is up and working. It’s [email protected].”

Yes, I work with all men for a magazine named House Moms Today—just like Cosmo, and just as I always dreamed.

“Great, I’ll send that right over.”