I stand by the street, holding his leash steady while he does his doggy thang, and find myself staring off into space…fixating on the bricks of the neighboring building, brain taking me back to that place.
Back.
To.
Spencer.
God. If I have anything to say about spending the workday with her, if I had to choose one word to describe it, that word would be infuriating.
But.
If I’m being honest, I didn’t exactly hate it. I put on a good front, protesting every time she decided to play music to fill the quiet room. Acted like the donuts she went back and stole from the breakroom were disgusting and possibly poisoned—but when she wasn’t looking, I snatched one and scarfed it down the way Humphrey scarfs down the rare human table scrap.
Goddamn that donut tasted good.
Maybe officing with a female won’t be the worst, although Spencer could make it easier by toning down the obnoxious meter. By not humming.
I flick Humphrey’s leash as a five-minute warning, dreading the moment that dog walks out of the bushes with a face full of mud (like he did the last time I let him dally). He’s done it a million times, and if he does it tonight, I’m going to be pissed. No one has time to give him a bath this close to bedtime. No one.
After his time is up, I flick the leash again, emitting a few clicks of my tongue. “Come on, boy. Playtime is over, time to get serious.”
For a brief second, I think he’s going to ignore me—like he usually does—then the little dude astonishes me when he listens, backing out of the shrubs like a mini dump truck. Beep, beep, beep!
His rear wiggles, tail wagging, as usual.
We both smile.
Happy dog, happy life.
5
Spencer
Captain’s log: Wednesday.
I may or may not have taken special care with my appearance this morning. Longer time with my makeup, more time choosing my outfit, special care with my hair—none of which has absolutely anything to do with a certain good-looking, male officemate.
None at all.
Er.
Maybe a little.
Possibly?
I’m at the office early again today (for the second day in a row), having practically flown here on wings built of sheer excitement. The lint brush I set on the seat of his desk chair is like the lone present you’re impatient for your parents to open on Christmas Day.
Except they dawdle and make coffee first.
Phillip still is not here.
I twiddle my thumbs again, quite literally, fiddling and fidgeting as if I were in high school again, waiting for my crush to show up for math class.
Slowly, time passes. Eight o’clock.
Nine o’clock.
Nine fifteen.
Nine thirty-two.
Maybe he isn’t coming back. Maybe he decided I’m not worth the trouble, or that I’m a pain in the ass.
Defeated and giving up on Phillip returning to his place in my office, I sigh heavily, trying not to take it personally even though I know it is.
He can’t stand me and he isn’t coming back.
My eyes stray to the lint brush I brought in for him, and my mouth turns down, imagining what his reaction would have been had he shown up today. Amused, entertained.
Charmed?
Who wouldn’t fall a little bit in love with the girl who brought you cream cheese, followed by a sticky lint brush—a girl you discover is a veritable treasure trove of unexpected offerings! Kind of like a cat bringing its owner a dead mouse.
My shoulders hunch as I pretend to work, my attempts at productivity shot. Keeping my eyes on the work I’m fake-doing, it’s late morning when Phillip surprises me. Strolls in, the baby blue button-down dress shirt a good indication that he must have had a meeting.
He came back! He doesn’t hate me!
My heart races as he stops in his tracks, brown leather shoes skidding to a halt on the dark industrial carpet when he spies the lint brush offering at the same time my eyes do a sweep of his dark slacks.
Pressed pants and not jeans? What kind of meeting could it have been?
Phillip removes the lint brush before sitting, expression neutral as he finally flops down in his chair. Adjusts the chair’s height—as he did yesterday—before settling in.
He nods toward the white and green sticky brush. “I don’t know if I should thank you or be insulted,” he states, tugging a file out of his laptop bag.
I consider this. “Probably a bit of both, actually.” There’s a giant long John donut on my desk and I offer him half. “Want some?”
“No thanks, I had a late breakfast.”
Hmm.
“Business breakfast?”
“Yes.”
Hmm.
“Where?”
He looks over at me from across the mega-desk, straight-lipped and serious. “Spencer, remember that rule about keeping the noise level down?”
“No.” I chomp down on one end of the donut, chewing thoughtfully, a pencil dangled between the fingers of my other hand. I twirl it like a tiny baton, a skill I mastered in grade school when I mastered actual baton twirling, after begging my mother to enroll me in classes.
Baton twirling: a lost art.
Also: completely useless, unless you happen to be dating a guy with a circus fetish, which I did back in college. I would squeeze into my old leotard and perform for him, which always led to sex.
’Cause—hello—I’m so good at it.
Sex and twirling, that is.
Phillip watches the pencil go round and round my index finger, propelled by my thumb, seemingly transfixed by the motion.
“How could you have forgotten? We made the rules yesterday.”
I chew and ponder, ponder and chew. “There is no rule about keeping the noise level down, and I’m not making any noise. I’m eating.”
“You’re being nosey, and we have an agreement about making small talk. It’s distracting.” He’s quiet a few moments before adding, “And it’s unproductive.”
I glance down at his desk, where nothing is open. Nothing is on, nothing has been started. “You’re not working on anything—all you’ve done is take that red folder out of your purse.”
I use the word purse purposefully, knowing it’s going to piss him off. Insult his masculinity and all that macho bull crap.
Phillip’s nostrils flare.
Bingo! A direct hit.
“I just walked in the door—it takes longer than two minutes to get a project started.” He seems to be glaring holes into my cute, pink, cashmere sweater. It’s light pink and soft as cotton candy with a small, embroidered red heart over where my own beats rapidly. A hot pink pencil skirt and matching pumps are a bit much for the office on a Wednesday, but they’re fun. Flirty. Sexy. A veritable Valentine’s Day covering my bod.
I rack my brain for something to say.
A reason for me to rise from my desk and walk out, giving him an opportunity to see how amazing my legs look in this skirt.
Ugh, I’m such a girl.
One with a developing crush on the office sourpuss.
Fishing for a boyfriend in the workplace pond is by far the worst idea I’ve ever had. Is it stopping me from flirting my perky tits off?
Not one bit.
I can’t help but notice his eyes quickly darting to my amazing rack, and I’m not even mad about it.