I stare out the window. Putz around on social media.
I have an ad campaign to busy myself with, but I don’t touch it. There’s signage for a huge high-rise to finalize, colors for a new exterior to look at and who has time to screw around?! Not me!
“Ugh.” I heave myself out of the desk chair, irritated and impatient, stomach fluttering like it did my freshman year of college waiting on my first ever roommate. Will she want the bed I chose? Will she be a total bitch? Will she be tidy like I am or a complete slob like my sister Shannon?
Tick.
Tock.
It’s just past eight o’clock in the morning. Around here, the workday has officially begun for almost everyone in our building, and my cellmate has yet to arrive.
My stomach growls, and because I skipped breakfast to make a hasty trip to work this morning, I resign myself to the breakroom, where I know there’s at least a muffin or bagel or two.
I snicker, remembering yesterday—Phillip.
Phillip, the guy who loaded up his bagel with expired cream cheese to be stubborn and prove a point, then barfed it back up in the garbage can in reception. He might have been cute in his standard-issue company polo and jeans—but the sounds he made when he gagged?
Disgusting, and also hilarious.
I bet when he gets the sniffles, he’s useless for days.
A “man cold” my mother calls it when my dad gets sick. One sniffle, one cough or slight fever and my father is laid out flat, bellyaching on the bed as if dying of some incurable plague—like a child.
Drives my mom nuts.
My mind strays to the image of him, hunched over and vomiting in Paul’s trash, and Paul beside him, eyes wide, hand on his mouth as if he were about to wretch, too.
There was no time for me to mention that one time in fifth grade during English class, we were seated on the floor listening to our teacher, Mrs. Galvin, when suddenly, I threw up in Renee Hall’s lap. When we were sent to the bathroom to clean ourselves up—me apologizing profusely—Renee threw up in the sink.
So yeaaaah.
Definitely not worth mentioning my own humiliation, instead enjoying Phillip’s.
The look on that guy’s face…classic mortification when his horrified gaze met mine from across the lobby. I was the last person he wanted to witness him puking.
Honestly? I kind of feel terrible for him.
Okay fine, on a scale of one to ten, I feel terrible negative zero, because witnessing that moment was a gift from above—ammunition for a rainy day, in case I ever bump into him, or need a favor.
Shoot, come to think of it, why didn’t I film it with my phone to use as evidence?
In any case, I am absolutely not going to the breakroom because I’m hoping to bump into Phillip. Who I absolutely do not have a crush on in any way, shape, or form. I just met the guy, for heaven’s sake—no one develops a crush that fast, no matter how ruggedly handsome someone is. Or how amazing he smells. Especially after watching that someone vomit in the most ungentlemanly fashion.
I’m hungry and need coffee; that’s my reason for heading to the breakroom. Taking the long route through accounting, past receivables, along the corridor past purchasing, the department that awards subcontractor contracts.
Glass walls. Easily visible offices. Fish bowls.
Except today, they’re all empty, void of even furniture.
Eventually I arrive at my destination, peeking into the empty room with hesitation—large, full of windows, all the amenities you’d find in the kitchen at your house and then some. Refrigerator. Sink. Several sets of tables and chairs. A few booths along the wall. Cabinets with plates, bowls, and glasses. Drawers with cutlery.
But no Phillip.
I’m not disappointed—you are.
I mosey on in, ambling to the fridge. A few times a week, food is brought in, not by our budget-conscience company, but by other businesses wanting jobs with us. Flooring contractors send in bagels on Fridays. The glass and window manufacturer? Monthly barbeque. There’s the occasional taco bar—hence why I’ve literally gained ten pounds since I began working here.
My eyes linger on the door.
No Phillip.
Since it’s Tuesday, there are croissants on the counter, and I snatch one from the glass bell jar, wrap it in a napkin, and pop it in the microwave for twenty seconds.
Not very nutritious, but buttery and delicious.
I’m cramming the baked good into my mouth when he strolls in, real classy and casual. A hot flush floods my cheeks.
Crap.
I may have seen him toss his cookies yesterday, but I did not need him to see me stuffing my face. Not a good look for me.
“Morning.” Phillip sidles over, reaching for a coffee mug, laptop bag slung over his shoulder. His hair is still wet and he smells like fresh shower, shampoo, and aftershave lotion—all the best things combined.
He’s wearing a black sweater and jeans, and when he turns his back to fill his cup, I can’t stop my eyes from roaming his broad back.
Dog hair.
Dog hair everywhere.
Yikes.
I stifle a laugh, wondering what kind of hound he has that sheds so bad, and feel guilty all over again for this poor dude’s bad luck.
“Feeling better today?” I jab, unable to stop myself.
“Yes,” he grunts. Turns. Spears me with a blue-eyed stare. “I wasn’t sick.”
We both know he wasn’t sick, but that doesn’t stop me from raising my perfect brows into my hairline and taunting, “You weren’t? Weird. Usually when someone heaves, it’s because they’re not feeling well.” For my next bite of warm croissant, I delicately pull the other end up and set it on my waiting tongue. “Just saying.”
“I feel fine.”
He looks fine. Super fine and super cute.
Ugh. I wish he’d go away so I could scarf down the remainder of this bread, but he doesn’t. In the brief time he’s been standing in the breakroom, he has only poured himself a mug of steaming coffee, hasn’t taken a single sip, nor has he gotten anything to eat.
I go to the fridge, pull the door open. Retrieve the white, round container of cream cheese and extend it as an offering. “Here.”
When he doesn’t take it, I set it on the counter between us. Poke it with my finger to give it a nudge in his direction. When he doesn’t touch it, I remove the lid, smiling. Am I the absolute worst or what?
Phillip gags, a small choking sound in the back of his throat.
What a pussy. Seriously.
“I’m not…” He turns his back for a few seconds, inhaling the fresh air. “I’m not hungry.” When he faces me again, he practically wheezes, eyes narrowed in my direction, and I shrug, heading toward the door.
“You should toss that—it might make someone sick,” I say over my shoulder. “Then again, who’d be dumb enough to eat it?”
Grabbing a water bottle from the cabinet next to the exit, I make my way through the wide corridor with the smirk still on my face.
But. Someone is behind me.
I glance back.
Correction: Phillip is behind me.
I turn right, toward the creative department.
Phillip turns right toward the creative department, hoisting his laptop bag, redistributing the weight.
I halt in my tracks, spinning on my heels. “Are you following me?”
“It does appear that way.”