Switch, Switch Again

There are three things I despise in this world: missed deadlines, office enablers, and Timothy Cullen’s dimpled, untouchable smirk.

“You were supposed to get the documents from the clients,” I said, pointing aggressively at the massive bulletin board.

“I wasn't aware. It was your duty,” Tim replied.

“It's clearly written on the calendar, Tim!” I snapped.He leaned against his desk and gave me that infuriating smirk.

I swear, one day it was going to be the death of me.Timothy Cullen and I had been oil and water ever since I started at the infamous Reijin Travel Agency.

He missed deadlines, forgot basic assignments, and handed off his workload whenever possible.But because he possessed a sharp jawline and a killer smile, everyone else let him coast by without a scratch.

Except me. Seniority be damned, I never let him off the hook.

“You’re always overreacting, Stella,” a voice called out from the next cubicle over.

“At least he's good to look at.”

“Seriously, Stella, you love acting like you’re the one running this place.”

The chorus of excuses echoed through the room while Timothy’s smirk broadened, completely untouched by accountability.

That was my last straw.

I turned on my heel and marched back to my desk, my jaw clenched so tight my teeth hurt. I aggressively hammered away at the keyboard, typing each character like I was trying to crack the screen.

At least he’s got a pretty face, I mocked under my breath. A pretty face with a sloppy attitude was a waste of skin. Yes, I said that.

The Manager walked in, waving a paper slip in the air with an unusually wide smile. Noticing the heavy atmosphere, she paused. “Did Stella and Tim have a skirmish again?”

“Did you need to ask?” three voices chimed in unison.

She let out a chortle and walked over, resting a warm palm on my shoulder. “More muscle to your patience, love.”

I tried to conjure a polite smile, but even I knew it looked like a grimace.She scurried off toward the center of the floor, and I heard Timothy let out a soft laugh a few cubicles away.

Turning toward him, I balled my hand into a fist and let out a low growl.He stopped laughing immediately. Good.

“So!” the Manager announced, clapping her hands. “The higher-ups were impressed with the statistics for last month and decided to reward all of us with a dinner party and a weeklong holiday!”

Everyone gasped in delight while I blurted, “WHAT!”

The Manager rubbed her forehead, turning her gaze directly on me. “Stella Kingston. While we tolerate your bickering toward Timothy, that attitude stays inside this office. If you cause any drama on this retreat, I’m afraid I’ll have to dock your perfect worker score,” she threatened.

For a man? Was this a sign that I needed to hand in my resignation?

“I'll try my best,” I forced out through grinding teeth.

“We'll work with that.” She smiled, turning back toward her office. “The venue details will be emailed shortly, so get ready to party!”

As soon as the door clicked shut behind her, Timothy leaned over the edge of my cubicle wall.

His dimples deepened as his voice dropped into a smooth, infuriating whisper. “Best behavior, Kingston. I’d hate to be the reason you lose your precious little score.”

“Idiot,” I whispered, proceeding to ignore him.

Days later, the executive-funded party was in full swing. Everyone wore their flashiest gowns and suits, taking full advantage of the open tab. Champagne, cocktails, and hors d'oeuvres were in abundance.

“Another spiked punch please,” I ordered at the bar, already too many drinks in.

My fuchsia dinner gown felt a bit warm in the crowded room, but I smoothed the fabric down, took my glass, and turned back toward my table.

“It's a miracle you haven't started an argument with Tim tonight,” one of my coworkers sneered the second I approached.

She was clearly baiting me. “All thanks to the Manager stepping in,” another chipped in with a mock sigh.

I wasn't going to indulge two small fries.I turned on my heel to walk away—and collided head-on with someone whose distinct perfume I recognized instantly.

My drink spilled everywhere as we both stumbled. Panic spiked through my chest.

Before I could speak, my head became fuzzy and my vision went dim. When my eyes snapped back open, I opened my mouth to apologize, but a deep, raspy, distinctly male voice escaped my throat: “I'm sorry.”

I froze and looked down at my hands—giant, broad hands with thick veins. Standing right in front of me, blinking up in sheer horror in a fuchsia dinner gown, was me.

I wasn't just looking at my own body. I was looking at myself from inside Timothy Cullen.