Free Twisted Sisters by Jen Lancaster Page A

car. I bet he owns one of those
     sloppy, friendly breeds of dog, too. Maybe a Lab or a retriever. There’s something
     vaguely familiar about him, but I can’t quite place my finger on what it is.
    I’m distracted by admiring the cut of his blue gingham shirt with the cuffs rolled
     up just so (is it possible to be attracted to someone’s wrists? Because his are prime
     specimens; I suspect he could dig a well or smack a tennis ball like no one’s business)
     when what he’s said sinks in and I snap to. “But that’s ridiculous,” I argue. “Wendy’s
     a fanatic about making sure snacks are available. She grew up poor and that forever
     changed her view on hunger—that’s a big part of her story. In fact, combating hunger
     is her battle cry. Over the years, she’s done dozens of shows on food insecurity and
     the chronic link between malnutrition and obesity. Surely you’re familiar?” Huh. That
     is one square jaw he has there. Not quite as magnificent as the wrists, but fine all
     the same.
    Sebastian’s wrists are the tiniest bit dainty for my liking. You’d think they’d be,
     I don’t know,
meatier
maybe, from playing volleyball, but they’re not. He wears a couple of bracelets,
     too. Not a fan. Sometimes I think, “Hey, nice arm party you’ve got going on there,
     Johnny Depp.” Of course, the last time I teased him about something innocuous—maybe
     the Drakkar Noir in his bathroom?—he went off the grid for a solid three weeks. Sensitive,
     that one.
    “People are fat
and
malnourished? That dog don’t hunt.”
    Is he flirting with me or is he actually dense? I’m generally attracted to intellect,
     so clearly this would rule him out. Clearly. Is he one of those guys who isn’t aware
     of his looks or their impact on people?
    “I assure you, I’m right. Are you at all acquainted with the concept of food deserts?
     People in low-income areas don’t have ready access to many unprocessed foods, so even
     though their caloric needs are being met, their nutritional needs aren’t.”
    He merely shrugs in a manner I find intensely annoying, so I press on. “Wendy’s been
     a board member for a number of hunger-fighting charities and she’s a tireless advocate
     for SNAP—Supplemental Nutrition Assistance Programs. The—let’s face it—convenient
     by-product of her passion is that no one here has to buy his or her own lunch ever,
     and not just on the days we film.”
    He smiles and I’d be blind not to notice how straight and white his teeth are.
Somebody’s
parents invested in orthodontia. Did I already award bonus points for not wearing
     bracelets? Then he says, “I don’t believe in free lunch.”
    And like that, any charm this man could potentially have held suddenly dissipates.
    I give him a tight smile. “I guess we’ll leave that up to the new executive producer.”
    “Guess we will.” Then he ambles off, presumably to annoy someone else.
    Deva arrives moments later and settles in next to me. “Salutations, Reagan Bishop.”
    I quickly air-kiss her cheek. “Hey, Deva, I’m glad you’re here. We’ve apparently hired
     yet another obnoxious staffer and I already hate him.”
    She studies my face and then looks me up and down. “Are you sure? Your aura is radiating
     clear red right now, which is more indicative of passion.”
    As if! “Then you’re reading me wrong.”
    “If you were a murky red, I’d sense anger and . . .” Then she takes in the set of
     my mouth and my crossed arms and decides not to pursue the reading. “Okay, Reagan
     Bishop. I’m sure you know what’s in your own heart. Let it be full of hate if that’s
     your preference.”
    The conference room is packed to capacity and the meeting was supposed to start a
     few minutes ago. We’ve all been summoned here, but it occurs to me that I have no
     idea who’s actually running the show now that Patty and her team are gone. As we’re
     burning daylight, it’s hot, and I’m sure