A Little Work, A Little Play

Part 1/2

Notes: This fic is Leejians' fault for encouraging me. So there. And it also exists because I want this TV show very very badly. (C'mon, tell me you wouldn't watch the hell out of Mew and Gulf starring in a slow burn office romance, with them wearing well-fitted suits in every episode, smooching by the copier, and casting smoldering glances over meeting room tables. You can tell me that, but I won't believe you.)

For the record, I know absolutely nothing about how talent agencies work in either Thailand or the US and chose to do no research because this is purely me having some fun.

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Type was absolutely not looking at Tharn again, even if the jerk was unfairly handsome with his muscled arms and his wireframe glasses perched on the tip of his nose.

Tharn had only worked at this talent agency for three weeks, but it seemed like Type couldn't turn a corner without running into him. His office was near Type's but still...he was inescapable.

However, Type Thiwat was a professional and he was in this room to defend his clients' interest. And he'd be damned if this shoe advertisement was going to go to some punk rock jerk rather than one of his football players.

The problem is that he had to convince senior management of this before it got presented to the advertising agency client. And fucking Tharn Kirigun had just moseyed into the meeting and derailed everything. Who the hell invited him?

Tharn sat directly across from Type, his smug smirk plastered across his face.

"It makes no sense," Type said through gritted teeth, "to present a musician for a shoe ad. Nobody thinks music when they're looking for shoes."

"But these are stylish shoes," Tharn said. "Nobody thinks of athletes when they're looking for style."

Former pro football player Type had to restrain the urge to leap across the table and punch him.

When the meeting was over, Type stalked out first, unwilling to spend another minute in the room. Which, of course, is why fucking Tharn followed him to his office, leaning in the doorway, arms crossed and every muscle on display.

"Bad luck," Tharn said as Type dropped into his chair.

"What bad luck? I have a footballer who would be perfect for that account but now we're going to lose to another talent agency because you just had to interfere."

"What if we don't lose the account?"

"Huh?" Type looked up from his computer.

Raising an eyebrow, Tharn smirked at him. "What will you give me if my client wins the account?"

"Why would I give you anything?"

"Consider it a bet. If you're right I'll stop 'interfering.' If I'm right...you'll go out on a date with me."

Type choked in outrage.

Still grinning, Tharn pushed off the doorway and left.

"Wait, what are you..."

But Tharn was gone.

"Bastard." Type slumped in his chair. "Well, it doesn't matter, since they won't win."

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When the email arrived, Type was on the phone with the producer of a game show, trying to convince her that this time the rugby player he represented wouldn't spend all his time trying to get in the pants of the two hostesses. (Even Type didn't believe it, but he had to try.)