When Dean Winchester quits his job as head of marketing at Sandover, his life turns on its axis.
His new job is nothing like his last: As the first communications manager for the small town of Milford, he’s confronted not only with new tasks, but a whole new set of work ethics that make him question what kind of person was and who he wants to be.
The biggest challenge yet might be working with the obnoxious Castiel Novak. Cas gets under his skin and grinds Dean’s nerves raw, so much so that Dean doesn’t even realize that he’s slowly but inevitably falling for him.
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Boost tourism, draw new citizens and firms to the area, improve press relations, communicate political decisions, the ad had said – Dean’s new job would cover a range of topics that would have been in the hands of at least a dozen specialists in an international company like Sandover. Now there’s only me, he thinks, and the thought doesn’t fill him with dread but with excitement. Like the first settlers, greeted by a wild and empty land, only that his West will smell of old paper and disinfectant, and his harvest will be a few likes on Facebook and a 2-percent raise in the polls.
A knock interrupts his musings. A mop of dark hair appears between the open door and the frame before the figure straightens into the form of a man in his thirties. Dean blinks. His tongue sticks to the roof of his mouth. Being at a loss for words isn’t something he experiences often, but right now he can’t do much more than stare. His guest stands still as if he’s used to that reaction, and Dean can see why.
Thick thighs are clad in tight black pants that vanish in black boots as if the last 15 years of fashion didn’t happen and emo never went out of style. The black muscle shirt does nothing to hide the generous ink that flows over a toned upper body, as if someone spilled it over the slightly tanned skin. The dark hair is tousled, not in the artificial way that smells of expensive styling products but in that other way that makes you wonder if that person just got laid. When Dean’s eyes finish their exploration and come back to the stranger’s face, he lets them sink into dark blue irises for a brief second before he looks away.
“Can I help you?” Dean croaks as he busies his hands with the stack of paper in front of him, and tries not to look up when the guy moves closer to the desk. Dean never knows how to handle people in a professional environment who don’t dress and behave like people in a professional environment. It’s disconcerting.
“No, I don’t think you can.” Yeah, sure, of course he has to have a gravel deep voice, too. And was that a hint of sarcasm in there?
Dean looks up and finds the guy squinting down at him. He suddenly, fiercely wants to rise from his chair just so he can stare down and make the other one squirm. It’s a childish instinct. Dean suppresses the urge, but barely.
