by Sara Ney
Turning my back so it’s facing the mirror, I crane my neck to glance over my shoulder at the back of my sweater. Sure as shit, it’s covered in Humphrey hair, auburn against black and stuck straight out like porcupine needles in a few spots.
Great. Just great—this can’t be the first time I’ve walked out of the house with a body full of dog hair, and I don’t own a single goddamn lint brush.
I wonder for a split second if Spencer will actually bring me one tomorrow, like she said she would, then shrug off the idea—why the hell am I thinking about her at all? Let alone wondering if she’s going to bring me gifts.
A lint brush is not a gift, you tool.
In short order, I have the dog on his lead—a bright blue leash with small, red fire hydrants on it, though Humphrey has never peed on a fire hydrant a day in his life—and we’re out the door, briskly making our way down the sidewalk.
Instantly, Humphrey has his nose to the ground, the relentless sniffing so loud I can hear it a few feet away, his long body hard at work.
Walk, sniff, walk, sniff.
Pause.
Sniff.
I let him do his thing—he never gets straight to the deed in the afternoons (the way Spencer didn’t get straight to work this morning), not after being cooped up in the house the entire day, so I give him the freedom to poke around.
Goofy little dude deserves it.
I got him as a rescue when he was eight months old; he was a monster as a puppy, and his owners surrendered him. I couldn’t imagine why when I first saw him—he was fucking adorable with his doe eyes, and droopy mouth, and giant ears. How could anything that cute be such a holy terror?
Well. I found out soon enough—came home one afternoon after making the mistake of letting Puppy Humphrey roam the house while I ran to the grocery store and found that the devil had destroyed the living room. Tore up a pillow. Ripped a sofa cushion. And how had shorty gotten up onto the coffee table? How had he ripped up the mail that’d been sitting on the counter?
Luckily for me, as he grew, he stopped ruining shit.
Unfortunately for me, Humphrey is a taker, and he takes advantage of the leeway now, maneuvering his trunk-like body into a line of shrubs.
It’s not an easy task—Humphrey hasn’t missed a meal in years—but he manages, disappearing entirely until the only body part I can see is his tail. He pulls at the leash, determined to drag me into the shrubs, too, but I stand firm on the sidewalk, arms crossed until he finishes doing whatever he’s doing.
Sniffing. Digging. Snooping.
It’s in his blood, I have to remind myself. Be patient; it’s in his blood. A detective he will never be, but damned if he doesn’t try.
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 usele
ss, 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.
I puff out my chest and clear my throat, because despite him trying to silence me, I’d like to hear what he has to say. What stupid shit he is going to word-vomit back at me about rules and restrictions. As if the thought of tolerating me for three more days is sheer torture, so much so that he’s erecting walls and creating boundaries.
Or…
Maybe, just maybe, he finds me so irresistible he can’t help himself, and he knows it’s unprofessional to lust after me in the office.
Yeah right.
I actually laugh out loud, knowing that’s not the case.
Phillip does indeed think I’m annoying, thinks I’m too talkative, a distraction—and not the good kind.
I frown.
I’m adorable. Everyone loves me!
“Hey, nothing against you personally,” Phillip begins, reading my mind. “I’m just not used to working in the same space as someone, let alone someone so…”
Pretty? Cute? Sexy? “Creative?”
His dark brows go up. “Chatty.”
Chatty? How dare he! I’m just being polite!
I make a hmph sound and cross my arms. “You’re spoiled and not used to sharing. Your dumb rules don’t have anything to do with me being chatty.” I spin my desk chair to face the window. He can talk to my back, thank you very much.
One second later, I spin back so I can look at his dumb face. “Furthermore, I’m making small talk to be polite.”
He holds up the lint brush as if to say, Exhibit A: this goes beyond polite. You brought me a present, which is essentially bribery.
So I like greasing palms—big deal.
“That is not a gift. You shed. I don’t need you getting hair on everything—the chairs are black and I’m allergic,” I grumble childishly.
“You’re allergic to dogs?”
“I’m allergic to fashion emergencies and wardrobe malfunctions.”
Then he does the one thing I’m least expecting him to do: tips his head back and laughs, a loud, raucous sound that does strange things to my insides and makes the warmth between my legs a few degrees warmer.
“It’s not funny,” I grumble some more as he laughs a little harder. His deep, sexy chuckle rumbles through my office.
“You’re ridiculous.”
“Pfft. You think I’ve never been called that before? Get in line, buddy.” I swivel in my chair again, determined to ignore him this time. For good.
Suck it Phillip. Suck my di—
“Don’t pout,” he says, laughter still lacing his speech. “Baby.”
“Excuse me?” It’s impossible not to spin around and face my nemesis for the second time. He wants to call me names? Fine. “Do you think I was looking forward to having someone in my office, with all their shit? No. I wasn’t. But I’m a team player, and I was hoping you’d at least be tolerable.” I inhale. “Turns out, you’re just a jerk.” I pause. “It’s killing my buzz.”
He seems to consider this, lips curled into a tight smile. “You have a buzz?” Phillip pulls a few sheets of paper out of his red folder then continues, his question apparently having been rhetorical. “But I’m not here to make friends, or gossip, or spend my day yammering. I’m here to work. I don’t know how they do it on the south side of this building, but on the north side, we don’t fuck around half the day.”
My mouth falls open at that last pronouncement, at the word fuck rolling off his tongue.
Testosterone overload much? It probably smells like Old Spice and beef jerky over there on the construction side. Dick swinging and pissing contests, men acting like assholes, trying to be more alpha than the next idiot.
Nonetheless, my cheeks flush with embarrassment. “Fine. I’ll leave you alone.”
“Stop talking then.”
How rude!
I huff, spinning away from him for the third time so he can work on whatever groundbreaking, super-important stuff he has in that busted-up red folder. Out comes a pencil, out comes a power cord. Earbuds. Black-framed glasses.
I sneak a quick peek over my shoulder as he pulls out a yellow steno pad, biting back a groan.
A steno pad? My grandfather uses those.
I face the window as Phillip begins taking notes.
Know how I know he’s taking notes without having to see it? Because I can hear the sound of lead being pressed into the paper with an unnecessarily heavy hand. He’s pressing the pencil so hard the lead actually squeaks.
“Oh my God,” I push out tersely, mostly under my breath, when I simply cannot stand the sound any longer.
The sound stops. “What?”
If I were wearing glasses, this is where I would whip them off as I turn to face him, like a defense attorney. “Must you press so hard on your damn pencil? Could it be any louder?”
“Now you’re telling me how to write?” He’s disgusted.
“No. I’m telling you it’s obnoxious and asking can you please stop pushing the pencil into the paper so hard? You’ve probably etched through to the desk.”
“You’re insane.” He shakes his head.
I’m insane? Umm…
“Your pencil is driving me nuts!”
“Oh, my pencil is driving you nuts.” It’s a statement, not a question, Phillip’s tone flat and bored.
“Yes! It’s offensive.”
“My pencil is offensive?”
“Stop repeating everything I say.”
“Get over yourself.” Phillip snorts, going back to note-taking, lead squeaking with every stroke. He holds the pencil up and stares at it, as if seeing it for the first time, pleased with it, and himself. “Huh. It really is loud.”
After that, he’s louder than before, a sadistic smile on his face that I want to smack right off.
He’s enjoying this, that bastard.
I thrum my fingers on the desk, thinking. What would drive him nuts? Music? Chewi
ng?
I click-click to close the windows on my desktop, rise from my desk, grab my wallet, push my chair in, and hold my head high as I saunter past him. Head straight for the breakroom, not caring any longer if he’s watching me in my sexy pencil skirt.
PHILLIP
If she doesn’t stop that, I’m going to lose my freaking mind.
Crunch.
Crunch.
Crunch.
Spencer bites into what can only be described as the crunchiest chip on the planet, created solely to make me go insane bit by bit. She slowly licks the cheese off her fingers after every chip like she did with her orange yesterday.
Doesn’t even have the courtesy to use a napkin.
“Are you doing that on purpose?”
Spencer licks her lips rather than her fingers, presumably to get the salt off. Leaves them moist and glistening.
My eyes go to that bottom lip, pinker than it was earlier, and I’m not sure if it’s lipstick or the salty snack that’s produced that rosy shade.
“Doing what on purpose?” Her eyes are a bit too wide to be innocent.
“Eating chips.” Loudly.
I have no idea where she procured a bag that size in this building, but it’s huge, and when she holds it up, I notice the words FAMILY SIZE on the side. Spencer glances into its depths.
“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.
