Summer Indiscretions

by Tamara Mataya

  “And you’d rather sleep alone?”

  “It’s my first full workday back from vacation, and my desk is going to be paper-bombed with memos—not to mention my inbox. I need a clear head to deal with everything.” She frowns.

  “It’s cool. I’ll get out of your hair. Is everything OK at work? I know it’s work, but you’re not looking as eager to get back to it as everyone says you are.”

  “Everyone says?” She clutches the sheets to her chest. “What do they say?”

  “Just that you love your job and you’re amazing at it. But you got a look just now while talking about it.”

  “No one likes getting back to the grind after an amazing vacation, Blake.”

  I smile and kiss her shoulder. “It was pretty amazing, wasn’t it?”

  Her gaze softens. “It was the best time I’ve ever had.”

  Chapter 31

  Melanie

  My heart pounds and my palms sweat when I enter the building and flash my pass at the security guards.

  I can do this.

  My stilettos punctuate my steps down the long hallway. After so many days in flats, I’m surprised how good it feels to slide my feet into heels. I’ll have to mention that to one of the writers. Jerry, perhaps. Though, if I moved into Editorial, I wouldn’t have to pass along my ideas and see someone else execute them. They’d still be mine. Sure, people give me unofficial credit around the office, but how good would it feel to see my name in the byline?

  I’m not the first at work, but whoever is here is out of sight.

  At eight in the morning, the office is quiet. Sienna is not yet at reception, but I wanted it this way. I’m likely to be buried under a mountain of paperwork, and if I get in later, people will keep stopping me to ask how my vacation was. Before I know it, it’ll be lunchtime.

  My vacation was spectacular, but I don’t have time to chat about it. But I’m feeling more than a little conflicted about Blake, and how I can still see him now that the fantasy is over and I’ve got to go back to being the real me.

  Note to self: Avoid Bailey today. She’ll want to talk about why I’m not glowing.

  Coming in early is partly psychological too. Being hard at work in my office when people come in shows my dedication, and it’s a subtle discouragement from talking. People will snag you into chitchat if you’re on your way to your office, but they hesitate to interrupt you if you’re already there.

  It’s hard, but I’ve tried to cultivate aloof professionalism in the office. I’m not against getting to know my colleagues, but as head of HR, I can’t be seen to have any kind of bias. I have to treat issues impartially. Even when the person complaining is a raging pain in my ass and I want to dump scalding coffee down their throat so I don’t have to hear another lie come out of their mouth.

  I pry my hands open from the fists they’ve turned into, noting the crescent indentations in the palms.

  Three minutes in the office, and I’m wound tighter than a coiled spring. Florida unwound me, Blake untangled me, and I can’t let go of the positive things that happened there—despite the way those good feelings slip away with each shallow breath I take in New York.

  But I do love this place, with its polished granite floors and brushed-chrome details. It’s modern, chic, and tasteful, while still having personality.

  One rotten asshole can’t spoil the barrel for me. I just have to keep that in mind when I see Thaddeus Mitchell’s smirking, weaselly little face.

  My favorite thing about the kitchen is the fancy coffee machine the boss bought a year ago. It chugs pleasantly while I pour in the milk, wait for it to steam and froth, and then add a generous heap of raw sugar to the bottom of my mug. I could do with the extra energy this morning. The journey from power on to Ah, that’s a damn good cup of coffee takes about four minutes, and while the coffee isn’t quite as fancy as a Starbucks, it’s free and delicious.

  “Hello, Melanie. Did you have a nice vacation?” Reese asks as he enters the kitchen.

  “I did, thanks.” I stir my coffee, thinking of something else to say. Reese has never acted like I intimidate him the way the rest of the staff do, which makes it easier to relax around him. Then again, his background is…interesting, to say the least. It’s no wonder he’s not intimidated by anyone, growing up a diplomat’s son.

  His expensive suit is impeccably tailored and shows off his trim build and broad shoulders. He adds a splash of hazelnut syrup to his cup. “Florida, correct?”

  “Yes, Miami.”

  “Any wild stories?”

  “Oh, you know. Identity theft, nude beaches, and cat smuggling. You know how it is.”

  Where the hell did that come from?

  “For sure.” He laughs, and I smile, unsure if he realizes I’m not lying, but I take a careful sip to avoid being scalded and head back down the hall, encouraged at my bravado. Maybe it won’t be impossible to open up and let these people in a bit more. The light’s on in Nick’s office, but that’s not a surprise. He’s incredibly talented—and cripplingly shy—so he tends to come in early to avoid the rush.

  My office is as neat as I left it, except that my inbox has hit maximum capacity and vomited the excess across my desk and onto the floor. At least the cleaners didn’t throw away the papers on the floor like they did during the last vacation I took. Even I knew I’d crossed the line with my haranguing after that episode, but I’d been so flustered that I couldn’t stop myself.

  What would I do in the same situation now? I’d have to do the same amount of work, but I can’t seem to access the same feelings of panic and outrage. If I’d walked into the same thing, I think I would have shrugged and sprung to work.

  Huh.

  I scoop up the pile from the floor and toss it onto the desk, sipping my coffee while my computer boots up.

  Maybe I should pull in one of the interns to sort through my mail, alphabetically or chronologically, but I prefer doing it myself. I’m the one who needs to know what’s going on, and besides, the information I receive in emails isn’t appropriate for an entry-level employee’s eyes. The biggest annoyance is when people send multiple emails and paper memos about the same thing, clogging both of my inboxes for something that never ends up being the emergency they think it is.

  No, the worst are the emails sent to apologize for sending so many emails. It’s like those people cannot stop word vomiting.

  I’ll deal with the emails first and then comb through the paper mess, cross-referencing duplicates I’ve dealt with via email and shredding when necessary.

  I underestimated.

  Inbox: 438 Unread Messages

  There are only sixty-three employees at the magazine. What the flaming fuck happened while I was gone?

  My cell dings with a text.

  Shawn: I don’t think I want you and Blake dating.

  The words hit me like a punch to the gut, and it takes a full three minutes of clutching my phone staring at that text before I can reply. If my own brother doesn’t think his best friend is good for me…

  Me: Why not?

  Shawn: I don’t know. It’s weird. He’s basically family.

  Me: It’s not weird. We love each other.

  Shawn: Maybe you had fun in Florida, but it can’t be more than that or you’d have gotten together sooner. I’m worried he’s taking advantage of you.

  Me: He isn’t! Stop it, Shawn. What’s he said about this?

  Shawn: I’m not talking to that fucking guy. What a weasel.

  Me: You’re going to shut him out? You’ve been best friends forever.

  Shawn: Whatever. What happens when you break up? I lose my best friend because he can’t come over anymore in case he runs into you. Is it worth it?

  Me: Stop being selfish.

  But the words apply to me as well. Isn’t that what I’m doing? If Blake and I don’t
make it, then Shawn loses the guy who’s been like his brother and Blake loses all of us, not just me.

  Blake’s worth it, but am I just prolonging the inevitable and arrogantly thinking I’m worth ruining his life over?

  I stuff my phone back into my purse and focus on my computer. I forward a few emails mistakenly sent to me to the appropriate places. Some people nag me with problems about their paychecks, but that’s not my department. Nor is it my responsibility to get the burned-out light in the stairwell fixed. I forward eight emotionally escalating messages about that to Maintenance, cc’ing the offended party so they’ll realize I’m not the appropriate channel.

  Unfortunately, that also includes an email to Thaddeus Mitchell, who sent quite a few himself regarding the lightbulb.

  From: tmitchell@H2T.com

  Subject: Can we deal with this please?

  Miss Walker,

  The lightbulb is still burned out. Please address this.

  And another two days later:

  From: tmitchell@H2T.com

  Subject: safety

  Ms. Walker, I’ve been reaching out to you regarding the burned-out bulb. This is a health and safety issue that requires your immediate attention. If anything happens, you are directly responsible.

  Thaddeus

  One day later:

  From: tmitchell@H2T.com

  cc: VDawson@H2T.com

  Subject: Immediate action required

  I don’t think it’s unreasonable for you to monitor your email in case of emergencies like this one. A month is a long time to be on vacation, and it’s irresponsible to leave without filling in your position. It’s basically a leave of absence.

  Thaddeus Mitchell

  Old money, same old assholes.

  The fact that he’s cc’d our boss, Valerie, is maddening. She’s the owner of the company, not a referee or a mom we need to run to about this stupid crap and tattle on each other about.

  Yeah, I need a minute to decompress.

  Deep breathing doesn’t help, but I remember the poster I’d carefully folded and placed in my purse. I grab it and the tape.

  The shot of the beach during a vivid sunset—no people in sight—makes me relax, remembering the heat on my skin, the sand between my toes. I cross my arms over my chest and sigh happily at the little window it provides into my vacation.

  “I’d have thought your time would be better spent catching up on business correspondence than redecorating your office, Melanie.”

  My spinal cord quivers against the inside of my vertebrae.

  Thaddeus.

  He smirks at me from my open door.

  “I’ve been answering emails. I was just taking a breather.” Stop justifying yourself to him.

  “Oh? Coming back from a vacation can be tough, but if the job’s too hard for you…”

  “I love my job.”

  His watery blue eyes blink incessantly. “Funny way of showing it. I know why you got this job.”

  “I got my job because I was qualified to do it.”

  His eyebrows raise. “If you want to keep your job, you need to be a professional. None of this redecorating the office on a whim.” He walks out my door, closing it behind him.

  I should be relieved, but a moment later, my email dings, and I know he’s sent something else. Seething too much to type, I stand and pace around my office. I’m glad for the lock on the door and the blinds that block prying eyes when I start punching at the air, imagining it’s his royal asshole’s face.

  Times like this, I wish I’d become serious about a martial art somewhere along the way. Even boxing. Something gritty, and raw, and physical. I could head to the gym on my lunch break and take out my frustrations on a punching bag. I’d get fitter in the process, and I could return to work feeling Zen and looking dewy with a healthy glow.

  More likely, I’d come back sore and blotchy. Still, it’s a good idea for stress relief, something that could help morale. The office has a small gym, and we have a small entertainment lounge with a pool table for wooing potential clients or informal brainstorming sessions. Maybe I could look into adding some boxing equipment to the gym.

  I suspect taping a photo of Thaddeus’s face to the bag would be a step too far.

  My inbox dings with another new email, and I head back behind the desk and viciously click the notifications off. I don’t need an audible reminder of my workload growing while I flail around the office wasting energy on an asshole.

  Time to switch things up.

  Plunking back into my chair, I take about twenty minutes to sort the mountain of papers chronologically into two large piles, the most recent on top. Working backward is the way to go. If an issue’s been dealt with, the employee will have sent me a notice, and I’ll be able to disregard earlier emails, saving myself some time. I hate trying to solve a problem that’s already been taken care of.

  Satisfied at the appearance of progress, I take a sip of coffee—and gag on the cold, milky liquid.

  Why is it that I love coffee, love iced coffee, but can’t deal with hot coffee that’s grown cold? I swallow it with a grimace and head to the kitchen to make a fresh cup.

  The happy chatter dies down when I stride into the room and rinse the dregs from my cup.

  “Hi, Melanie. How was your vacation?” Katka asks in her shy but sincere way.

  I start the coffee machine. “It was fine, thanks. I got a lot of sun—Florida, you know.”

  “I can tell. Your skin is glowing.”

  The other two smile politely, but it’s clear they’re uncomfortable around me. They think I’m stiff and judgmental, probably someone who’s never done an uninhibited thing in her life. “Thanks.”

  What would they say if they knew about the Switch, or the nude beach, or Blake? Any of it. I almost got a tattoo. Would they be surprised and reluctantly admire me if I suddenly opened up, or would they be mildly horrified, like I was a stiff aunt suddenly trying too hard to fit in? It’s not like I can drag them all into the boardroom and pull up vacation slides. “Here’s me on a nude beach. Here’s me doing a water sport. Here’s me fucking my old crush! Aren’t we a cute couple?”

  I want to bridge the gap between myself and these people. They’re cool, interesting people, and I know all about them. I’m head of HR—it’s my business to know about them. Yet, what I know are just facts and figures. Salary, ages, family situations, benefits, sick leaves.

  I don’t really know them—and they know even less about me—but even if we were work friends, it’s not like I could bitch about anyone to them. I’m in a position of power that the majority of them don’t have, and I’m tired of it. I want to be one of them.

  It’s harder this way, more isolating, but maybe it’s better if I want to keep my job as it is. I wouldn’t even know how to start bridging this gap anyway.

  I give them another polite smile when my coffee’s done and head back to my office.

  Chapter 32

  Blake

  I’ve never actually been here, but I brought food for Mel. A woman’s got to eat, right? The guards check my bag carefully and take my details from a photo ID before signing me in, which seems like overkill. It’s a women’s magazine, not a controversial political paper. Then again, feminism has become a polarizing topic, and some of the articles published here are quite provocative.

  I know because I’ve spent the last few hours reading back issues on my phone. They’re an online-only publication. I liked a few articles by Bailey Monroe, who I’m pretty sure I’ve heard Mel mention as her best friend. It’s weird to think we’ve never hung out with any of each other’s friends. We’ll have to remedy that. If we’re going to be part of each other’s lives, we need to merge them a little, have them bleed into each other—or an analogy that doesn’t include bodily fluids.

  I turn left off the elevator
and stare for a second at the serious wealth of the place. Whoever designed it had taste—and a shit ton of money. Pride fills me that my girlfriend works in a place like this. Not just works here—she’s in charge of a lot of things here.

  The walls are a light sage that stops the low-ceilinged halls from feeling like tunnels. The main desk has a higher ceiling that opens up the place, drawing you toward it. A leggy Chinese woman with a side-shave hairdo strides up to me when I stroll past reception. “Hey. You look a little lost.” Her Marilyn piercing glints when she smiles.

  “Yeah, I’m looking for Mel.” At her blank look, I clarify. “Melanie Walker’s office. It’s on this floor, right?”

  “Is she expecting you?”

  “Not exactly.”

  She toys with the lace at the cuffs of her fitted jacket. The ensemble reminds me of a pirate, but I know jack and shit about fashion. Her glance drops to my bag. “You’re a delivery guy?”

  “Today I am. We’re dating, and I’m surprising her with lunch.”

  Her slow head-to-toe appraisal is blatant but quick, and she ends it with a small smirk. “Wow. Well, Mel’s office is the last door on your right.” She points in the opposite direction. I turned the wrong way getting off the elevator.

  “Thanks. What’s your name?”

  “Sienna.”

  “Thanks, Sienna.” I turn and head to Mel’s office, feeling a little nervous, which is ridiculous. It’s Mel—the woman I’ve spent an insane amount of quality time with the past few weeks. Hopefully, she’s not too annoyed that I’m interrupting her on her first day back.

  But the nerves are excitement too, and even though I just saw her last night, I can’t wait to see her again.

  The doorknob doesn’t budge when I try it—locked—so I knock instead.

  “Just a minute.” Her voice is muffled by the door.

  The door whooshes open, and her frown turns to a look of surprise.

  “Blake.”

  “Hey, Mel.”

  She fiddles with her earring. “What are you doing here?”