Read Online Not My Type by Melanie Jacobson - Free Book Online Page B

ambient noise. I climbed the stairs to a glass door displaying the clean lines of the Real Salt Lake logo in its center. Taking a deep breath, I pushed it open and stepped into the crowded office. Like the newsroom at the Bee , everyone worked in one open space, but a much smaller one. Eight desks, all Ikea style, dotted the office in a configuration that allowed navigation through a narrow pathway running straight down the room. Four of the desks sat empty of people but full of loose papers, knickknacks, and oversized flat-panel computer monitors. Every other desk had someone at it. The lone male, a pasty-skinned guy in a Homestar Runner T-shirt, stared at his computer screen and clicked his mouse every few seconds. The three girls, none of whom looked more than five years older than me, were either talking on the phone in business-friendly voices or clicking around on their own fancy monitors.
    One of them, a willowy brunette with a chic bob cut, stood and made her way over with a smile on her glossy lips. As I checked out her dark skinny jeans and gathered tee in an achingly cool retro print, I sent up a silent thank you to Ginger for suggesting I skip the suit.
    “Ellie Peters?” I asked, my hand outstretched.
    “And you’re Pepper,” she said, assessing me even as she shook my hand and smiled. I hoped I looked like a good fit. Love me , I silently begged. Love me so much that you offer me a job on the spot.
    “Yes. I’m so glad to meet you. I love what you’re doing with Real Salt Lake. ”
    “Thanks,” she said, her smile bright. “We work hard at it. Why don’t you follow me to the break room, and we can talk more about it.” She scooped up her laptop as she walked.
    I trailed after her, trying to look as hip and cool as the other girls in the office, although I was feeling very Old Navy in an Anthropologie world. I didn’t have a lot of time to study the office before following Ellie out, but besides the modern desks and furniture, earthy terracotta-color paint warmed the walls, and a few abstract paintings in thick oils and a couple collages with a slightly vintage feel caught my eye. The space looked like the love child of Ikea and a Moroccan bordello. Weird but cool.
    The break room was far more generic. A worn fridge hunkered in a corner, and a coffee maker and microwave crowded the cheap Formica countertop. Ellie waved me into a seat at the folding table in the center of the room and pulled out the chair opposite me.
    “Sorry about the ghetto fabulous décor in here,” she said. “As a start up, we try to keep our money invested only in things that affect the public’s perception of us. We need the front to look nice for investors. By the time we can afford a break room makeover, we should be graduating to bigger, nicer digs.”
    “That makes perfect sense.” I nodded and then caught myself, not wanting to go down the same crazy head-bobbing path I’d taken with Tanner Graham. “Thanks again for seeing me.”
    “I’m glad you called,” she said. “What do you know about Real Salt Lake ?”
    I did a mental fist pump, glad I had spent time studying the webzine. “I love the design of it. You’ve created the look and feel of an expensive glossy magazine online. The writing is excellent, the topics are interesting, and I will definitely be checking it out in the future, regardless of what happens today.”
    She beamed. “I love hearing that. This is all I’ve eaten, breathed, and slept for more than a year. I like to refer to us as small but mighty. We only have eight full-time people on staff right now, but it’s a high concentration of talent.”
    “That’s definitely fair to say,” I agreed, meaning it. They had a really good thing going. “I’m honestly shocked I haven’t heard of it before.”
    Her face fell for a moment, but then she mustered another winning smile. “That’s our biggest headache right now, figuring out how to get our name out there. That’s part of what