Free Miss Adventure by Geralyn Corcillo

know.”
    “That's it?” I ask. “That's your reaction, to make a joke? Your whole staff is going to think I'm your booty call. Don't you care?”
    He slides me a look, then grabs a duffle off a shelf. “No one is going to think that.”
    “Why?” I challenge. “Am I so out of your league? Would the idea be just too absurd to anyone who knows you?”
    He stops and looks at me. “Lisa, I don’t have sex in the office. It’s not a rule, exactly, but I just never do. And I don’t encourage it among my staff.” He starts to fill the duffle with gear from his drawers and shelves. “But if it will make you feel better, I’ll tell Peg how crazy hot I think you are.”
    “You’re making fun of me.”
    “That’s because you’re whacko.” He doesn’t even pause what he’s doing when he says this.
    “So,” I say, trying to step back into a more professional mode, “what's up with Sawyer? The Sawyer, right? The big sport shoe company?”
    Jack zips the duffle shut. “I already told them once to go fuck themselves because I’m not interested in joining up with some nightmare conglomerate of cheap labor and mass marketing. Let’s go.” He brushes past me on his way to the door.
    “Jack,” I say. “This deal is never going to work if you get mad at me every time I ask a question or make a suggestion.”
    “I’m not mad.”
    “Then why are you so edgy?”
    He turns to me, his hand on the doorknob. “Because I hope to God I’m doing the right thing.”
    “Why?” I ask. “What are you doing?”
    “I’m taking you on your first adventure.”

C HAPTER 7
    “Yes, Lisa. Naked.”
    “Naked, naked?” I swallow, then take a deep breath. He can’t be serious. “You want my naked skin touching this thing?” I look at the long, black wetsuit in my hands. We drove all the way back to his house up in the hills of Glendale just to get this stupid suit that’s not going to fit me, no matter how naked I get.
    “It’s the best way.”
    “So there are other ways.”
    Jack sets the duffle on his kitchen table. “Yes,” he says, unzipping the bag. “Some people wear a swimsuit underneath, or Under Armour.”
    “Armor?” It’s for the sharks, I know it!
    “Under Armour. It’s like a spandex body suit.”
    “Let me do that, then. You must have one lying around here somewhere.” I look around Jack’s house. Nothing.
    Just beyond the big wooden table in the kitchen, the room morphs into a family room. But the kitchen looks like a normal kitchen with a fridge and stove and all, and the family room just looks like regular family room. Couch, TV, coffee table. No spandex lying around anywhere.
    I wander into the living room at the front of the house and hit pay dirt. At least, potential pay dirt. The spacious room, which I think is supposed to be part dining room—the demarcation is unclear because of the mountain bike and the saddle—is messy with gear, junk and working-type stuff just like his office at Into the Wild.
    Jack follows me.
    “Lisa, do you know the point of a wetsuit?”
    I don’t answer. As far as I’m concerned, a wetsuit is for wearing if you’re on a show like The Man from Atlantis or if you work at Sea World.
    He gets in front of me, right in my face. “It keeps frigid water away from your skin.”
    “But you were in shorts this morning!”
    “I had to test the suit, and I didn’t want to wait until July. Anyway, I’m a little more used to it than you are.”
    “Then the body armor stuff will keep me a lot warmer than wearing a wetsuit with nothing on underneath.”
    “Wrong.”
    In that one word I hear the thumping finality of a guillotine.
    “Anything you wear underneath,” he explains, facing me squarely, “even a bathing suit or a pair of underwear, allows air between the suit and your skin.”
    “Letting your skin breathe is good. I saw that James Bond movie where—”
    “Air in a wetsuit is bad,” he says, cutting me off as he heads back to the kitchen.
    I have no