“These chips?”
“Yes.” I grind my teeth, the concrete budget laid out in front of me long forgotten.
“Is there a law against me eating food in my own office?” The last two words come out haltingly—as if she’s daring me to say so.
“No, but it’s rude.”
Her chin tilts. “Your pencil is rude.”
My pencil is rude? I snort. “Of all the asinine things to say.”
“Asinine,” she repeats. “Jesus, who are you, your grandfather?”
Lighten up, Phillip. You really are starting to sound like a boring, old man.
Perturbed by my own irritation—and her crunching—I take a single sheet of yellow, lined paper and set it on my desk. Slowly drag my pencil across, the unhurried friction emitting a dull screech.
Spencer takes a handful of chips and shoves them in her pie hole, chomping with her mouth open, orange pieces of various sizes falling from her mouth and onto the carpet. Her desk. Her pink sweater.
Her tits.
The tight garment makes them look supple and soft and squishy and why am I looking? Do I want her to file a complaint for harassment, for fuck’s sake?
I drop my eyes from her chest as my lead drags.
Her chips chomp and crunch.
Drag.
Chomp.
Drag. Chomp.
“Hi! Hello.” A woman appears in the threshold of Spencer’s office, scowling, a stack of plans in her arms. “Hi. Can the two of you cool it in here? Good God, I can hear the racket from my office.”
“Sorry Karen,” Spencer mumbles through a mouthful of cheesy corn chips, debris still casually falling from her pouty lips. “It’s his fault.”
She has no shame.
Karen stands gawking, glancing from me to Spencer. Me. Spencer. When her scrutiny lands on me once more, it lands there long and hard, evaluating. Her hawk-like gaze narrows. “Are you from the south side?” she asks, as if she’s inquiring about my gang affiliation. As if I’m from the wrong side of the tracks.
“Yes.”
“That figures.” Karen lets out a hmph before ambling away, head shaking in disgust, mumbling about manners and respect and millennials.
Spencer swallows, reaching for a bottle of water, chugs down a few mouthfuls, wipes her mouth. “Ah.” She replaces the bottle top. “What a snack. Mmm mmm delicious.”
I stare after the woman who just chastised us. “Who was that?”
“That was Karen.”
“Why is she so judgy?”
“Hello, I just told you—she’s a Karen.”
I feel my face scrunch up. “Am I supposed to know what that means?”
Spencer rolls her eyes. “Guess not.” She sets about ignoring me, the way I wanted her to ignore me earlier. The way I willed her to before I walked into the office this morning after my meeting. Just let me work, I silently prayed while riding the elevator up to the thirtieth floor. Don’t be cute, just let me work.
Newsflash: Spencer Standish is just as sexy as she was yesterday—and she isn’t letting me concentrate on work today. In fact, she isn’t letting me sleep, or eat.
I lay in bed last night, staring up at the ceiling wide-eyed, listening to Humphrey saw logs. Every time I closed my eyes, I could only see my new officemate’s sarcastic smile and hear her sassy laugh.
The last thing I need to be thinking about is what her body looks like without those soft, touchable clothes. A body I’ll probably imagine later, covered in chip crumbles and donuts.
I’d eat stale chips off her boobs any day of the week.
I shake my head to clear the fog out of my brain. Blaine and Brooks would love this predicament I’m in—crushing on my deskmate. Tempted to flirt with her. Forcing her out of my thoughts, feigning annoyance when I actually think she’s fucking adorable and irresistible.
And smart.
Sexy and so damn clever.
Yup, the guys would love this. Especially Blaine, who would win our bet if I admitted the feelings I was beginning to feel. Tingles of interest.
Sorry, Spencer—I want those baseball season tickets. Like I said, it’s not personal.
Okay—it is.
“You look serious.” Spencer raises one brow. “I feel a rule coming on.”
“Are you suggesting one?”
She does that chin tilt I’m becoming a fan of. “I think I am.”
“Okay, let’s hear it.”
“Rule whatever number rule we’re on: no purposely being annoying to distract the other person. It’s unprofessional.”
“I agree.” A jerky nod. “You were purposely being annoying.”
Her mouth opens and closes like a mackerel. Or a bass.
“So were you.” She insists on arguing, this one. Argumentative and stubborn.
“Not at first,” I argue back, because I’m argumentative and stubborn. Go figure.
Spencer’s hands flatten beside her keyboard and she levels me with a stare, rising up in her chair a few inches. “Are you telling me you had no idea your pencil was that insufferable?”
I cock my head. “I don’t think an inanimate object can be insufferable.”
“Agree. To. Disagree.”
6
Spencer
“Repeat after me: that guy is not worth the head space.”
“That guy is not worth the head space.” I do as my best friend Miranda tells me to. She works a few blocks away and meets me for lunch most days, including today. “Although, can I just say—he is super cute.”
“Puppies are super cute. Kitties are super cute. Grown men are handsome. Or hot.”
“Fine. He’s handsome and hot—are you satisfied?”
“But is he a nice guy?” Miranda pushes and pushes and pushes. “I won’t tolerate it if he’s not a nice guy.”
“Um. He might be.” I wouldn’t know, because all we’ve done is test each other’s patience by arguing. “I see glimpses of nice.” Not many, but a few? Like the time he… And that time…
Er.
Yeah.
Miranda takes a sip of her cappuccino. “Where does he work?”
“On the south side.”
Miranda levels me with a blank stare. “I don’t know what that means. I thought you just said he works for your company.”
“He does. On the south side.”
My friend narrows her eyes. “Speak English.”
“He works on the other side of the building. If you’re using a compass, it’s on the south sid—”
“Okay, okay, I get it, you nerd—he’s on the opposite end of the floor. Why didn’t you say so in the first place?”
I thought that was what I was doing.
“It’s not my fault you’re directionally challenged.”
It’s true. Miranda will almost always get us lost if she has to drive us somewhere, not one to utilize any type of navigational system. She says they’re untrustworthy and speak to her in a “tone” that doesn’t sit well with her.
“Anyway,” she says in an attempt to get us back on track. “What’s his name?”
“Phillip.”