Good-looking, conceited Phillip.
“Also,” he goes on, “I’d prefer not to make small talk. I have work to do and am on deadlines, so…” He avoids my incredulous gaze as he starts unpacking his laptop bag, removing the computer, a few pens, and a calculator.
He’s the only one with deadlines? Pompous jerk.
“Just so we’re clear—I have nothing to say to you.” Unless it’s to give the jackass a piece of my mind. “And since we’re sharing rules, I want to put it out there…I don’t expect you to get me coffee unless you’re getting some for yourself.”
Phillip’s spine stiffens. “Excuse me?”
“I said, I don’t expect you to get me coffee unless you’re getting some for yourself.”
His hands go up to stop me from continuing to speak. “No, no. I heard what you said, I just…won’t be getting you coffee. Ever. I’m not your secretary, and this isn’t Working Girl. I won’t be making you copies, or sending emails for you, or doing you favors. Entendido?”
“Is that Spanish?”
“Yes.”
I roll my eyes. “Yes, I understand.” Pause for dramatic effect, because he’s being a drama llama, then add, “Friends get their friends coffee.”
“We’re not friends. I don’t even know your name.”
“It’s Spencer, and I like traveling to exotic locations, indie films, indie books, and iced lattes with extra ice—would it kill you to grab one for me on your way in every now and again?”
So rude.
“It might.”
I give him the heaviest eye roll I can muster. “Drama, drama, drama.”
“I’m not getting you snacks, food, or any kind of caffeinated beverage.”
I shrug. “Suit yourself.”
Phillip gets comfortable at his desk, cracking his knuckles (shudder), flipping his laptop open, and waiting for it to power up. Types in his password. Clicks away at his keyboard with obnoxious, robust taps that will probably drive me nuts within the hour. No—the next minute.
Click.
Click. Click, click, clickety click click click.
Click. Backspace, backspace.
Oh my God!
What could he possibly be working on?! He’s been in here less than six minutes! I prefer to ease into my work, warming up by hitting the breakroom, checking my social media, texting my mom and a few friends first. Maybe I’ll take a lap around the building to get the creative juices flowing—take advantage of the walk to clear my head, chat with a few people along the way—but I never, ever just get straight to work.
Who does that?!
I watch Phillip while using my laptop as cover, its black screen concealing me while I ogle his work ethic incredulously. What is wrong with this guy? Just look at him, working—making us all look bad!
“Stop watching me,” he tells me without looking up, tapping away like a maniac.
“I’m not.”
He looks up. “Stop.”
“You’re not the boss of me.”
“You’re not the boss of me,” he parrots.
“So stop being so bossy.” And stop working—it’s not even eight thirty in the morning, I want to say. You’re making me look bad.
“If you would just stop staring at me while I’m trying to work, we wouldn’t be arguing.”
Excuse me if I’ve never seen anyone on this side of the building get straight to work when they sit down. Sheesh.
“If you weren’t working then I wouldn’t be staring.” Shit. Did I say that part out loud?
“Huh?” Phillip looks so confused.
“Nothing. I meant—don’t flatter yourself. I’m not even remotely interested in what you have going on or why you’re typing a thousand words a second.” I huff.
His head tilts down, eyes engrossed, plastered to his screen. “You seem like the kind of girl who likes to argue.” He sighs without having the decency to raise his head, those long fingers rhythmically beating at his keyboard.
The kind of girl who likes to argue! How dare he be so accurate. How. Dare. He.
“You don’t know anything about me.” I sniff indignantly. “I’m as docile as a house cat.” One that likes to argue.
I hold back a meow for effect, knowing he’ll think it’s weird. He’s wearing a cable-knit sweater, for pity’s sake—and he hasn’t smiled at me once.
I don’t even know if he has a full set of teeth inside his perfect mouth.
“Docile as a cat?” Phillip snorts. “I know plenty of house cats, all of which would eat your dead body if you collapsed on the floor.”
Dang, that’s probably true. “I, uh, can’t help but noticing you have a pet.” There. I’ve successfully changed the subject. “What kind is it?”
My new officemate finally looks up at me, blue eyes quizzical. “How do you know I have a pet?”
“You have hair all over the back of your sweater,” I kindly point out. How does he not know this? Is he blind? It wouldn’t take a detective long to discover his information.
He curses, letting out a groan, then twists his body in a failed effort to see the back of his black garment. “Do I? Shit, I do.”
“Cat or dog?”
“Dog.”
“What kind?”
Phillip levels me with a blank stare. “Did we or did we not agree not to make small talk?”
“I agreed to nothing. Are you always this bullheaded? What’s the harm in chatting before we get to work?”
The loud sigh he emits causes a few heads in the cubicle area to turn, and I catch Francine Pepperman raising her eyebrows over her partition, because the nosey, eavesdropping woman cannot keep to her own business.
I shrug at her through the glass and she lowers herself back down into her seat.
“It’s a dog, his name is Humphrey, he’s a Basset Hound, and three out of five days I’m late to work because he cannot get his act together.”
He fires off answers before I can ask specifics, describing his dog as if it were a child who won’t put his shoes on for school in the morning despite being instructed to do so fifteen times.
“You should leave the house sooner.” An icy glare is his only reply, so I add, “Take him out to pee earlier.”
Silence.
“Is he the kind of dog that’s impossible to wake up?”
Another beleaguered sigh. “I’m going to file a complaint with human resources about your incessant line of questioning.”
“This is my office.”
He hesitates as if not quite sure how to respond but pulls through with a respectable, “I am your guest—as you so eloquently pointed out.”
“Ah, and therefore, I am trying to make you feel at home by trying to get to know you better.”
“No—you’re just freaking nosey.”
True. He has me there; I am nosey, mostly out of boredom. I don’t know if anyone knows this, but creatively marketing for a construction company isn’t exactly the most thrilling line of work on the planet. I’m basically designing signs to hang on the side of skyscrapers and postcards to hand out to the community when a large job is about to start, apologizing for the inconvenience. Please excuse our mess! kind of thing, the same message we received via memo from management about the remodeling.