Our Father Who Art in Middle Management

By Cynthia Knoble

Michael has never been comfortable in his own skin. Average in every way, he longs to be special, to be noticed. When a new group of friends shower him with affection, Michael is content to bask in their adoration, even if they believe he's someone he isn't. After all, there's no harm in going along with their misconception. What could possibly go wrong? As it turns out, all hell could break loose.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Get Your Shriek On Press
• Release date: Jun 21, 2019
• ISBN: 9781386989158

Cynthia Knoble

Author of several contemporary and paranormal romance stories, I weave my imaginary world from my home in the suburbs of Toronto, Ontario, Canada. When not writing, I balance many other creative endeavours with the skill of a circus-trained plate spinner. Okay, not really, but I try. 

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Cynthia A. Knoble

Copyright © 2019 Cynthia A. Knoble

Our Father Who Art in Middle Management

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The dagger seemed to hover in mid-air allowing Michael a moment of thought before it descended. How the hell had he gotten himself into this? Though he knew. Of course he did. He had been an idiot and was about to pay the ultimate price for it. I should’ve seen this coming. He had though, hadn’t he? The signs had all been there. He had just chosen to ignore them.

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1

Two months earlier

Michael, mail in hand, turned from the wall of mailboxes and almost banged into someone. When he saw the someone was a beautiful woman, his throat tightened. Sparkling violet eyes sat under black brows that matched the soft ebony curls surrounding her face. Full lips, adorned with the reddest lipstick, turned up at the corners. Probably in amusement at his shocked face. This happened a lot, him freezing up in the presence of such beauty and, before long, he would say something foolish to make her outright laugh at him. Once, just once, he would like to be suave around a gorgeous woman, to have stunning eye-candy on his arm when he entered a restaurant. It happened to other men, why not him? Because you’re a fucking useless floundering idiot around women like this, that’s why.

He stepped back and attempted a smile but couldn’t force one on his lips. Instead, they curled down. Sorry.

Those sensational eyes locked with his. He had never met anyone with purple eyes before. They captivated him. He was certain they weren’t contacts. The woman smiled. A real smile, not a sympathetic one, or a polite one.

No harm done. I’m Gina, by the way. I just moved in. Sixth floor.

She held her hand out. He hesitated before reaching for it. It’s just a handshake. Relax. You shake hands all the time. So what if this one is attached to a beautiful woman? It’s just a handshake. He took her hand in his and shook it with a practiced efficiency, just the right length of time and the perfect amount of pressure.

Her eyebrow cocked. You’re a businessman, aren’t you?

Yes.

I can tell by the handshake. Another smile, this one more luminous than the last. And, by some miracle, she was still talking to him. And your name?

Idiot. Really, you’re an idiot and you’re blowing this. She’s being receptive. Calm down and act like a normal human being. Michael Miller. I live on the thirteenth floor. I’m a businessman. And a robot. He tried not to cringe at how stiff his voice sounded.

There is no thirteenth floor.

Fourteenth, I mean. It’s such a silly superstition that I try to ignore it. You idiot. What if she’s superstitious? You gotta find this shit out before opening your damn mouth. He wished that voice away, the one that sounded like a devil on his shoulder, except there was never an angel on the other one. Nope, just that nasty little shit who belittled him at every opportunity.

Gina placed a hand on his forearm.

Holy shit, holy shit, holy shit.

You seem tense. Did you have a bad day at work?

His day had been fine. The root of his tenseness was her. No, it was him and his ridiculous inability to speak to