Confessions of a Call Center Gal: a novel (9 page)

Oh yes, I need to tie it all in. “So it’s the same thing with the English language. The best way to learn and enjoy it is to read something that grips you. It can be a mystery, a sci-fi, a thriller, anything. And once you’re hooked, there’s no turning back.”

Mika leans back and hesitates, “Reading’s not really my
thing
though.”

I blanch and pound my fist on the table. “That’s because you haven’t
found the
right
book,” I say with a firmness that surprises me.

The corners of his mouth twitch.

I flash him a perfunctory smile. “What types of shows do you watch on TV?”

He drums his fingers on the table. “The History channel. I dig war movies, documentaries, anything to do with World War II. I just like
facts
.”

“What else?” I encourage him to continue.

“
Top Gear
. It’s a Brit show about cars.” After a beat, he adds, “I like watching Anthony Bourdain and Andrew Zimmern on the Travel Channel.”

“That’s a pretty good start.” I stand up and grab my things.

He slides his chair back. “Where are you going?”

“
We
are going to the county library.”

The very minute we troop into Marshall public library, I’m like a woman on a mission. I head straight for the computer kiosk and after a quick search, I march to the book aisle, scan the shelves for the title, locate the book and thrust it into Mika’s hands.

He reads the title out loud. “
A Long Way Gone: Memoirs of a Boy Soldier
.”

I give a scholarly nod. “True story about a young kid engulfed in Sierra Leone’s civil war. And it’s not too long; only a little over two hundred pages. It’s the perfect book for you,” I say, trying my best to sell it to him.

“I’m sold.”

Next, I drag Mika to the periodicals and step back, giving him some space and time to explore. After perusing the aisles for ten minutes, he has made his selections; two copies of
Motor Trend
and the most recent issue of
AutoSpeed
.

Mission accomplished.

While Mika registers for his library card, I idly browse the aisles. Surreptitiously, I pluck a steamy historical romance from the shelf.

After giving the cover a cursory glance, I flip it over and read the blurb on the back.

Scottish Laird Iain McLean is forced to wed Dundee lass Adamina to settle an ongoing dispute between two clans. Whilst the reunion may have brought peace to the Highlands, Iain finds himself at war with his own emotions. Strong willed and sensual, Adamina battles her fierce attraction for Iain, determined to remain his wife in name only. At the outset, Iain only seeks the pleasure of sharing his bed with Adamina. But he is soon lured into a love so absolute and a passion so deep that he finds himself torn between a woman and his clan, facing duplicity, betrayal and ultimately, redemption.

Well
hello
Laird Iain McLean!
Sizzle.
My whole body tingles with anticipation. I can’t wait to snuggle under the covers tonight and read all about the sexy Scottish Laird who ravishes his feisty, fetching, bonnie lass. This book sounds like a delicious romp across the Highlands.

Satisfied with my choice, I sail over to the checkout line.

Bugger! The only librarian on duty is still assisting Mika.

I stand behind him and remain as quiet as a church mouse.

Sensing my presence, Mika turns round and notices the book in my hand. “
What’cha
got there?” he asks casually.

“A book,” I say innocently, biting my inner lip.

“What book?” he asks with a flicker of curiosity.

I grip the book tighter. “Just one of the classics…
Jane Austen
,” I inform him with an air of Olde English eloquence, and with the prudence of a matronly, spinsterish aunt.

“You’re all set,” interrupts the mousy librarian.

Thankfully, he returns his attention to the front desk.

My shoulders begin to relax and I sigh with relief.

Phew!
Saved by the librarian.

Suddenly, Belgium boy does the unthinkable.

He whips back unexpectedly and pries the book out of my clenched fingers. After a mad skirmish and scuffle, Mika reigns victorious, book in his hand.

“Eeeps!” A
shriek escapes me and I lurch forward, determined to
wrestle the book back for dear life.

Alas, it’s too late.

Mika is reading the title out loud. “Interesting...
The Scottish Laird’s Virgin Bride
.” His voice is playful yet tormenting, and I catch a faint glimmer of enjoyment on his face.

I fix him with a sharp, chilling stare.

Unfazed by my daggers, Mika studies the cover. The corners of his mouth begin twitching uncontrollably, and I find myself cringing and burning with shame.

Laird Iain McLean, fully decked out in a red kilt and tartan, is pictured frolicking in a celestial forest with a scantily dressed woman, whom I can only presume to be his wife, Adamina.

My face flushes hotter and hotter with utter humiliation.

Impulsively, I snatch the book back, and with as much dignity as possible, I check out my smut novel and stalk out of the library without so much as a glance back.

Mika is soon beside me.

But I am so crippled with
e
mbarrassment that I can scarcely even look at him. Awkwardly, I pretend to be preoccupied with the contents of my bag. To make matters worse, we dropped off my car at home and took Mika’s car to the library, which means I’ll have to ride home with him. Oh, the
agony.

I slide into Mika’s car and remain mute
.

Seconds later, the engine roars to life and we’re coasting down the freeway in his low rider Impala. The air remains heavy with my silence and Mika mistakes my embarrassment for anger.

His expression softens. “Are you mad at me?”

I smile weakly in return and shake my head.

He shifts gears and looks meaningfully at me. “There’s
nothing wrong with dirty romance novels.” After a beat, he adds, “You’ll have to let me know if that’s a good one...maybe I’ll read it.”

I bite the insides of my cheeks to keep from smiling. “You’re
not
going to read it.”

He grins. “You’re right. I probably won’t be reading
The
Scottish Laird and his Virgin Bride
any time soon.”

I laugh, and the more I think about it, Mika’s right. There’s really nothing wrong with reading trashy romance novels. It’s like eating junk food every once in a while, like an In-N-Out burger and fries with a milkshake. I crave it every so often and it hits the spot, no pun intended.

Consuming coming-of-age novels just gets old and stale after a while. Plus ‘healthy’ literature and serious fiction plays havoc with my mind. Just last month, I read
The
Lovely Bones
and it was so dark and depressing that I almost put a gun to my head and pulled the trigger.

After reading that novel, I just
had
to escape to a happy place; somewhere far away, up in the Scottish Highlands. And thus, I turned to Harlequin.

Some of Harlequin’s historical titles are remarkably well written and meticulously researched, and they continually open my eyes to new facets of history. I have learned more history
from romance novels than I have from eighteen years of
schooling. Hmm. I realize now that I overreacted.

I flick Mika a sideways glance. “So, any plans this weekend?”

He keeps his eyes on the road. “I’ll be hitting the slopes up at Pebble Creek. We’re supposed to be getting a ton of fresh powder tonight. It’s going to be epic!”

“You’re going skiing?” I ask airily.

He puts on an indignant air. “Um, no. I’m going boarding.”

“Oh,
sorrrrry,
” I say with a trace of sarcasm. “I didn’t mean to ignite the feud between you riders and skiers.”

He rewards me with a wry smile. “Skiers? Could you possibly be referring to those wanker two plankers with prissy poles who deck themselves out in neon onesies?”

I giggle. “So, when you’re not tearing down the mountain in your plastic tray, your assignment from me this week is to read the book and mags in your spare time.”

“Yes ma’am,” he says, pulling his car into Janis’ driveway.

Yes, I still live there with Karsynn
.

Mika stalls the engine and turns to face me. “Thanks again, Madison.” And for a little while, his gaze lingers.

“Anytime,” I say in a stilted voice, inching out of my seat. I step out of the car, slam the door, and fly down the path.

Wrestling with the lock, I throw a glance over my shoulder.

Mika waves at me through the lightly tinted windows.

I wave back.

Six

B
eep!

“Thanks for calling Lightning Speed. This is Maddy, how can I help?” I ask on autopilot.

And then the strangest thing happens. The customer actually starts
spelling.

“M-y
 
n-a-m-e
 
i-s
 
B-e-n
 
W-r-i-g-h-t,” he spells.
Spells!!!

W-T-F
?!?

“I
 
w-a-n-t
 
t-o
 
s-p-e-a-k
 
t-o
 
t-h-e
 
C-E-O,” he orders, and yes, he is
still
spelling.

Yeah, they all want to speak to our CEO, Siegfried Miles, like Siegfried sits around all day twiddling his thumbs, just waiting to speak to fuming customers. Siegfried has a company to run for Pete’s sake.

I give the speller the standard spiel. “I’m sorry, Mr. Wright, our CEO is unavailable to take calls, but you can write a letter and mail it to his office if you’d like.”

Not surprisingly, the speller doesn’t take this kindly.

He flips out and starts spelling again, this time an octave higher. “N-O! N-O! N-O!”

Oh my God. This guy is such a hoot!

Oddly enough, all this spelling is infectious.

On impulse, I start spelling myself, “Y-E-S
 
Y-E-S
 
Y-E-S.”

“M-A-N-A-G-E-R!” he yells and spells.

Uh oh, I guess he isn’t amused.

“O-K,” I say politely, not wanting to antagonize him further.

Drats!
That’s too bad. I was enjoying the call and I wanted to spell some more with Mr. Wright. We were just about to get into a spelling spar and he had to go and end it.

What a buzzkill.

Oh well, hopefully I’ll get him next time. He sure broke up the monotony of my calls. How refreshing! A speller!

Time to go get The
Führer
.

I stride over to her cubicle and stand there until she notices me. It doesn’t take long.

“Yessssssssss?” she hisses.

“Um, I have a caller who wants to speak to a manager. And he’s very upset.”

Hillary shoots me a terse look. “For future reference, I would prefer that you phrase it like this:
I have an escalation, and the caller is irate,
” she snaps. “You work at a call center and I
expect
you to
speak
call center lingo!”

I stare at her, unblinking. She’s obviously barking mad.

“So tell me, what’s going on now?” Hillary’s voice is laced with irritation. “Why is the caller irate?”

I’m quite taken by the Spelling Bee, and I find myself feeling slightly protective over him. “Well, he’s actually really nice. But I think he may have some sort of speech impediment. So...um, he spells.” I cast a lopsided grin.

The
Führer
says nothing.

And so I carry on explaining, “At first, he wanted to speak to the CEO. I gave him the standard spiel, but he didn’t like it and spelled for a manager.”

She gnashes her teeth. “Transfer him to me. Extension 4444.”

My poor little Spelling Bee. Little does he realize what he is in for. The
Führer
will chew him up and spit him out like the tobacco she chews.

Sigh.
He should have just stuck with me. We could’ve gone places. I just know that we could’ve formed a meaningful kinship and spelled the night away.

Reluctantly, I release the Hold button and conference the call.

“Mr. Wright, thank you for holding. I have Hillary on the line now. She’s my supervisor and she’ll be assisting you from here,” I say with a deep sadness in my voice, and drop off the line.