Spinster? by Nikki Mathis Thompson Page A

knew it was silly to fixate on how she looked. Logically she knew it didn't matter, that Wesley was probably married to a supermodel who goes down on him every day without being asked. Tess was no supermodel, but if Wesley was still as hot as he was twenty years ago, then he wouldn't have to ask her, either. She'd go down on her knees with enthusiasm and gusto. Bowing to his cock like...
    "Lord, get a life, Tess." She shook her head, slipped in her earrings. "Shit." All this mucking about with clothes and fantasizing about desks and cock bowing had her running behind, really behind. She didn't have time to eat breakfast, so she snatched an apple from it's bright bowl and hoped it would hold her over until lunch. The lunch she wouldn't be eating because she would be interviewing Wesley.   Damn it. Hopefully all the guacamole she ate the night before would sustain her until she could grab a sandwich.  

    "Brady, I'm still waiting on the conclusion for your article. I need it by the end of the day."
    "You got it."
    "The sales team brought in five solid advertisers for the next six issues, so looks like you fuckers get to keep your jobs," he teased. A wad of paper flew towards his head.  
    "Okay, lastly, Warner, your piece looks great. You'll feature this month," her boss announced. There was a round of applause and enthusiastic cheering. Gabe Parks could be a task master, but he sure had good taste. He was a squat, stout guy. Perspiration heavy and foul mouthed, he seemed more suited for the stock exchange than this little free publication.
    "Thanks, Gabe. That's great news, " Tess said, trying to suppress the eat-it-suckers grin threatening the corners of her mouth.
    And it was great news—to have the feature article was the goal of each writer. They had a tally board on the wall outside of the break room. Whoever got the most features received the coveted "Writer of the Universe" trophy made of spray painted gold plastic and Mardi Gras beads. If that wasn't enough, the winner also had dinner at the swankiest restaurant they could think of paid in full by the other columnists. The trophy now sat on Jemma Brewer's desk, stolen right from under Tess's nose. Tess had it in the bag when Jemma swooped in with her sell out piece she wrote about the new cancer wing at the Children's Hospital. Like Gabe could say no to sick kids...the pussy. Tess's piece on the Christmas tree lighting in the square, although heartwarming, didn't stand a chance. So Jemma, with a smug face, got the December issue giving her six features to Tess's five.  
    But this year, it was on. This was Tess's second feature of the year, and she was going to kick Jemma's ass. Graciously, of course. Stiletto heel in Jemma's neck, trophy held high, "We are the Champions" blasting from the jam box being held high above Gabe's smiling face.  
    Like she said, graciously.  
    "Okay, that wraps it up. Make sure I have everything by the end of the day. It's going to layout tomorrow, and if your shit isn't in, I'll let Juan take over." Groans filled the conference room. Juan was their layout editor, and albeit extremely talented, had certain ideas on how their monthly should look. It had only happened once, to Bill Jennings, who may still be in therapy as a result. The title page of his feature piece on the mayoral race had ended up bedazzled in sparkled bubble font. No one had missed a deadline since. "Get back to work." Everyone vaulted from their chairs, anxious to get to their desks.  
    With her article completed, she had plenty of free time to watch time go in reverse—at least that's how it felt all morning long. Her stomach was churning and turning, both with excitement and hunger. She grabbed her purse and left her office. Her strides were brisk as she made her way down the hall to Willa's desk in the open foyer of their office.
    "Willa, you wanna go grab a bagel?"
    "Sorry, babe. Ben made me French toast this morning."
    "Ugh, really? On top of everything he