by Sara Ney
Yes, I don’t know, and—maybe.
Not that it matters, because I cannot date anyone.
Not if I want those season tickets…
“So they just shoved another desk into each office?” Blaine wants to know.
“Pretty much.”
“Why didn’t they just let you work from home for the week?”
I shrug. “Couldn’t say.”
“That would be nice,” Brooks agrees. “But you wouldn’t get jack shit done.”
And I wouldn’t be able to stare at Spencer when she isn’t looking, or have her feed me when I step out to hit the bathroom only to find a snack on my chair when I return.
I’m bound to get spoiled.
Am already.
And it’s only been two full days.
“Who is your officemate? Some dork from accounting?” Blaine asks rudely, forgetting the fact that he is an accountant.
“No.”
“Human resources? That would be hilarious—they can’t write you up for being a douche if they’re sharing an office with you.” Brooks laughs.
“Very funny.” I take a drink to avoid answering, almost choking when I catch sight of Spencer Standish and another female pausing in the entrance of The Basement, both of them scanning the area. Casing the joint.
The girl next to Spencer nudges her with an elbow, and they walk in farther as I shrink down in my seat to delay the inevitable: her spotting me and coming over.
Because if she sees me, she will.
That’s just the kind of person Spencer is. Balls to the wall, meets things head on, doesn’t avoid conflict kind of girl.
Fuck, fuck, fuck.
I choke a little, sputtering.
“What the hell is wrong with you?” Brooks asks, his entire face scrunched up, staring at me like I’m crazy.
“Nothing. I just…”
We’re all sitting here like assholes wearing matching jackets, and if she comes over here—what if she tells them she tried mine on today?
Fuck, fuck, fuckity fuck.
Shit balls. “Is it hot in here? Maybe we should take these off.” I suggest, hoping they’ll follow my lead.
“Take these off? We’re in session—you have to wear the jacket.” Yeah, they definitely think I’m acting nuts.
I shrink down farther, ass almost to the edge of the seat, head barely rising above the back of the chair.
“Why are you acting weird?” Blaine is more intuitive than he lets on, and he glances around the bar area. “Do you see someone you know?”
“No!” It comes out too loud and too frantic, and he knows I’m lying.
“Is ittt…” He’s intent on discovering Spencer’s identity, and he looks straight at her and her companion. “That girl? The blonde?”
Definitely not the blonde, but close enough. I need him not to make a scene, and I consider hauling ass to the bathroom—and staying there. I can shove some nuts in my pocket to hold me over.
“Who are we looking at?” Now Brooks is in on the action, neck craning, eyes scanning, mouth gaping.
I am so screwed.
“Would you knock it off?” I try to say it casually but have never managed to pull that off, not even as a teenager when my mother was embarrassing me. Like my friends are right now.
“She’s not even looking—calm your tits.” Brooks rolls his eyes. Easy for him to say; he’s not the one who has to show his face at the office in the morning.
“No, but she will be.” Blaine’s hand shoots up and he waves it, catching the attention of Spencer’s friend. They look over.
I can see the range of emotion crossing over Spencer’s face, can read her body language, even from here. She is feeling the same things I am: excitement and dread, both at the same time.
“Don’t,” her lips are telling the other girl, holding her arm back as her friend slowly begins weaving her way over to our dysfunctional little party, smug smile on her face that matches that of my bastard buddies. She’s the female version of Brooks and Blaine: cocky, arrogant, and attractive.
“Hi!” the friend is saying as they approach, Spencer lagging behind like an adolescent being humiliated by her parent, a blush on her cheeks that glows as bright as her teal blue sweater.
“Phillip and my friend here work together.” She’s chipper and cheery and I don’t trust her one bit, especially when she gives Spencer a tiny shove forward.
“Imagine that, boys! Phillip works with this pretty young lady and didn’t tell us.” Brooks kicks me in the shin. “Sit up straight, son. Your manners suck.”
I sit up straight, coming off like a complete fucking tool.
Do I say hi? Do I wait for her to say hi? Jesus, why is this so awkward? I work with Spencer; it’s not like I’m interested in her—yet here I sit, tongue-tied.
Is it because I’m attracted to her and it’s taboo? That has nothing to do with anything. That should not turn me into a bumbling moron in public. I’ve been attracted to way prettier girls before and done just fine.
Shit.
That came out all wrong in my brain. That’s not how I meant it. My point is, I’m cooler than this, for God’s sake.
“Hey.” I nod at Spencer, accompanying my stellar salutation with a stilted wave.
“Hey!” Spencer is cherry red and seems to have found her personality—after being forcibly dragged over here. “Weird bumping into you here, of all places. Do you come here often?”
How the hell did she hear about this place? It’s dominated by men—or maybe that’s the reason she’s here? Is Spencer looking for a hookup? A relationship? If she is, it would make sense to come to The Basement; not a bar in town with more male testosterone per square foot.
“It’s our spot,” Brooks tells her, reaching up to offer his hand for a shake. “I’m Brooks, by the way, since Dipshit there has forgotten his manners. And that’s our buddy Blaine.”
Spencer’s blue eyes go from me to Brooks to Blaine, and then to our matching jackets.
Her brows go up, and I pray she doesn’t say a word about it. Please don’t ask, please don’t ask…
“I’m Spencer, and this is Miranda.” She pauses, staring at Blaine’s jacket. Raises her eyes. “Phillip and I work together.”
Both bastards turn toward me. “What a coincidence that you’re here tonight.”
Spencer shifts on her heels. “We’re sharing an office this week,” she adds, and I inwardly groan. “I’m not stalking you or anything—we found out about this place from a guy she knows.” She thumbs toward her friend.
“Not stalking him? Bor-ing.” The smirk on Brooks’ face is like the cat that ate the mouse—sly and arrogant. “Though it’s weird that our buddy here never mentioned you—I don’t remember you telling us you were sharing an office with a girl.”
“And we were specifically asking him about work today,” Blaine adds helpfully, and I wish he would shut his face.
“Very specifically who his new officemate is,” Brooks lies.
Spencer flushes deeper. “I mean…we just work together. It’s not a big deal, not really worth mentioning. He’s squatting in my office while his gets remodeled.” Fidgeting while she word-vomits, Spencer plays with a long strand of hair falling over her shoulder, twisting it a few times before releasing it.
“If you were my officemate for a week, you better fucking believe I’d tell my friends about it,” Brooks declares, turning to me. “Is there a reason you didn’t tell your friends about it, buddy?”
I want to kill him.
I want to kill them both, seriously.
Spencer’s friend—cute and flirty, wearing heels and hot pink—leisurely checks me out. Inspects me like I’m an insect, as if it’s her job, scanning me from head to toe, beginning with my hair, shoulders, chest, and…everything else.
Evidently Spencer has told her friend about me.
The friend—Miranda—squints at us, though there is ample lighting in the bar. “Why are you dressed like triplets?”
“We’re not,” Blaine replies. “Purely coincidental.”
Miranda folds her arms and leans her hip on the edge of Brooks’ chair. “It’s a coincidence you’re all dressed like Hugh Hefner?”
Blaine nods again. “Yes, ma’am.”
Clearly Miranda isn’t buying it because clearly it’s a load of crap. “Look me in the eye and tell me there isn’t something else going on here. What is this, a club meeting?”
Brooks chokes on his cocktail while I begin pounding him on the back in an effort to avoid the questioning. Red-faced and panting, my best friend wipes his mouth with the sleeve of his blue velvet jacket and sits up straighter in his chair, attempting to act dignified.
“Why would you think this is a club?”
Yeah, what would make her assume that?
Both girls roll their eyes like we’re idiots, but it’s Spencer who finally speaks. “Because there are three of you, and you’re all dressed the same? Which is super weird because you’re grown-ass men—unless it’s a meeting for something.”
Grown-ass men.
The way she says it makes us sound immature, and only Blaine warrants that label.
Spencer tilts her head in that way I’ve grown familiar with, the hair on the side of her face falling away to reveal the smooth column of her neck. Long and delicate.
Ugh. Fuck.
Fuck this dumb club and this dumb bet.
It’s making me look and feel like an asshole.
“Can we get you ladies a drink?” Brooks offers, and I suspect it’s because he wants to change the subject, not because he’s itching to have them sit with us. After all, he has a girlfriend.
“We don’t want drinks, but thanks,” Miranda says at the same time Spencer asks, “This isn’t a fraternity thing?” Not surprising that the stubborn minx is not willing to let the subject die.
I’m going to hear about this at work, and I’m going to hear about this from the Bastards as soon as Spencer and her friend walk away. Which I wish they would, because I’m starting to sweat inside the thick fabric of this blazer.
Whose dumb idea was this club anyway? I shoot a scowl at Brooks, whose dumb idea it was—he’s swirling the ice cubes in his glass and playing dumb.
“Spencer, I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.” There. I put an end to the conversation the only way I know how—bluntly. Rudely, even, though that’s nothing out of the ordinary. With her the past few days, I’ve been prickly—on edge. So unlike myself I wonder if I’m going to make it through Friday.
The girls smile politely. Spencer gives a tiny wave. “It was nice meeting y’all,” she tells my friends. “See you tomorrow, Phillip.”
When they walk off, not one of us says a word; we don’t dare. We watch as the girls head back toward the entrance of The Basement, get their jackets from coat check, and leave. I hold my breath the entire time.
Then…
“See you tomorrow, Phillip,” Brooks mimics in a feminine voice, sounding lovesick and sighing. “What. Was. That all about?”
“She did not say it like that.”
“Oh no—she did. She sounded just like that.” He clears his throat then goes on. “Phillip and I work together.”
“What the fuck, dude—why didn’t you tell us you were sharing an office with a chick? She’s hot! How can you concentrate?”
I can’t. “It’s easy—she’s annoying.”
“Does it matter? She’s gorgeous.” Blaine’s eyes stray toward the door and my hackles rise; I don’t need him lusting after my co-worker. It feels…wrong. Especially since I’m lusting after her, too.
“She eats a lot of junk food,” I fib, remembering the chip incident—though that was just to piss me off.
“Who cares?”
“Like a slob. She’ll probably die at an early age from clogged arteries,” I argue, building a case so he’ll stop reminding me Spencer is good-looking and hot.
“She eats junk food?” Brooks isn’t impressed with my excuses. “That’s your big argument against her hotness?”
“And her work ethic sucks.”
“How?”
“Well, she gets to the office early but doesn’t actually do anything.”
They both stare at me as if I’ve sprouted two heads.
“Her ability to be productive in the office has nothing to do with her ability to fuck,” Brooks points out, raising his hand to signal the server. He orders another round with a flick of his wrist.
“She’s probably messy.” I can’t imagine how disordered her apartment or house or whatever living quarters are, based on the fact that she leaves crumbs on the front of her sweater.
“Again—irrelevant.”
Totally irrelevant. To my own ears, the arguments sound weak, but I cannot let them get the faintest whiff that I’m interested in Spencer. That I’m more and more attracted to her as the days roll by. I’d be screwed. Blaine would do whatever he could to put her in my path so I’d lose the bet.
He’s no idiot, and now he smells drama…
SPENCER
Miranda: Why does your officemate have to be so hot?
Me: Is he?
Miranda: You literally told me yesterday you thought he was good-looking and then you brought him lunch like a little puppy dog. Then you told me he makes you nervous—you were BLUSHING.
Me: I didn’t actually think you were going to meet him in person! My bad.
Miranda: Well, you were wrong.
Miranda: By the way—he is way hotter in person than in that dorky photo on the internet.
Me: You didn’t tell me you thought he looked dorky!
Miranda: I was being SUPPORTIVE. That’s what friends do. Speaking of supportive, do you think his friends are single? Hook a girl up.
Me: Probably? They look single.
Miranda: The one with the brown hair didn’t.
Me: What makes you say that?
Miranda: He looked like someone picks out his clothes. PLUS (and this is a big plus) he wasn’t hitting on me.
Me: None of them were hitting on you. Or me.
Miranda: Don’t you think that’s weird??
Me: I guess so? Maybe? Who even knows with guys anymore. #IGiveUp
Miranda: Why do you suppose he didn’t tell his friends about you?
Me: No idea. Haven’t given it any thought.
Miranda: You’re SUCH a liar! Of course you’ve thought about it—that’s what girls do.
Me: He didn’t tell his friends because he isn’t lusting over me.
Miranda: False. He didn’t tell his friends about you BECAUSE he is lusting after you.
Me: Time will tell I guess. Maybe he’ll be so overcome with passion by Friday that he won’t be able to stand it anymore. Fancy a hard office bang?
Miranda: Yes, yes, I am loving that!
Miranda: Also wondering—what the hell was with those matching jackets?
Me: I don’t know, but I’m going to find out…
10
Spencer
I don’t bring up the weird Hugh Hefner jackets he and his friends were wearing last night. As strange as it looked, it’s something they obviously didn’t want us asking about.
So I don’t.
I might like to tease Phillip, but I know when to respect boundaries. Most of the time…
Besides, I’ll figure it out eventually.
We’re on our third day together, both of us rushing in late this morning. Phillip pants when he hits the threshold of the office, laptop bag practically choking him as it hangs haphazardly from his neck. Coat askew, all the buttons in the wrong holes. Hair windblown.
“Trouble with Humphrey?” I glance up, having only just arrived myself.
“He is going to be the death of me.”
I giggle into the brim of my latte cup. “I feel a kinship to this dog. You should bring him in sometime.”
“No way—although I told Paul I would, but that’s only because I was kissing his ass on a day I was super fucking l
ate.” He looks at me and cringes. “Shit. Pardon my language.”
“God, don’t apologize. I’ve heard worse. Hello, I work in a male-dominated industry.”
When Phillip has his things organized on his side of the room, he sits, regarding me. “What’s that like?”
“What’s what like?”
“Working here—in a construction office?”
I consider this, having never discussed it with any of my co-workers before. I’ve only had this talk with my girlfriends. “At first it was an adjustment, but I’m on this side of the building, so it’s mostly women.” I pause before adding, “When I was first hired here, I was excited because I thought it would be exciting to work with guys, you know? I’m single and thought maybe it would be fun to meet someone here, but the reality is most of the dudes are my father’s age.” I give him a wink. “No offense.”
Phillip rolls his eyes. “We both know I’m not anywhere near your dad’s age.”
“How old are you?”
“Twenty-eight. How old are you?”
“Thirty.”
I watch as his eyes bug out a little at the revelation. “You’re thirty? You look…” He searches for an age. “I thought you were twenty-two.”
“Twenty-two! They’d never have hired me for this position fresh out of college.”
He has the decency to look uncomfortable. “How the hell would I know that?”
“I guess I shouldn’t be arguing with you—I should be flattered.” Neatly stacking a pile of folders in my outbox, I shoot him a grin. “You really thought I was that young? Wow.” My grin gets wider. “Huh.”
“Don’t let it go to your head.”
“Why, was that a compliment?”
He grunts.
“So is that a yes?” He scowls, and I laugh. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
“Get to work, Standish.”
“Rule number two—I got it, I got it…”
PHILLIP
If only she knew how many rules I’ve broken lately. The jacket, the crush, the nonstop talking she and I have been doing—all breaking rules I’ve put in place for myself.
But it’s impossible not to laugh when she laughs. Or comment when she says something clever, or volley back when she teases me.
