The Brooklyn Book Boyfriends

by Kayley Loring

  “Caleb, let me grab my project manager so we can get her on the phone with you. She’s a lot better at explaining this stuff than I am. Can I put you on hold for a second? Thanks.” He presses the ‘hold’ button and presses the phone to his chest. “I’ve got an important customer here. He was one of the first when we launched. I sent out the email you helped me draft last week—”

  “Yeah, you bcc’d me.”

  “And he has some concerns about the upcoming changes.”

  “Shouldn’t your VP of Sales be dealing with this?”

  “I deal with the VIPs directly. Can you give him your pitch?”

  “Lemme at him.”

  He smirks. “Have a seat,” he says, as he goes around to his own chair.

  I take a seat in front of his desk and clear my throat. In the next five minutes, I proceed to give Mr. VIP my patented “this is why subscription services are better for everyone and here’s what we’re going to offer you as a special bonus for being one of the first to sign up” pitch on speakerphone. Chase leans back and watches me, chimes in only when necessary. By the time we hang up, Caleb can’t even wait to switch from on demand à la carte member to annual subscriber of SnapLegal-NYC’s services.

  I remain seated and we stare at each other, for what feels like an eternity. He smells so fucking good I just want to rub my face against his sweat glands for half an hour or so—is that too much to ask?

  “Thank you,” he finally says. “That was great.”

  “It’s what I’m here for.”

  He nods. “You have a good weekend?”

  “Yes!” I practically yell out. “Great! You?!”

  “I was here working most of the time.”

  “Oh.” Shit, I should have come to the office. “You work on weekends a lot?”

  “More often than not.”

  “You going someplace nice later or something?”

  “Lunch with a board member,” he says reassuringly. Like he knows I’m worried he’s got a date or something. “Thanks again,” he says, turning his attention to his laptop.

  I guess that’s my cue to leave. “Right. Well, let me know if you get any more calls or emails that you want me to handle.”

  “Will do.”

  When I get to the door, he says, “By the way, if you’re wearing that outfit because you were trying to make yourself less attractive to me, I appreciate it, but you’ll have to try harder.” I look back at him. He doesn’t even look up from his laptop. Is he flirting with me? I can’t tell.

  “If you were trying to look so sexy that I’d throw myself at you, you’ll have to try harder.”

  He still doesn’t look up from his laptop. “Duly noted,” he says, and then he picks up his office phone. “Would you mind closing the door behind you? Thanks.”

  When I get back to my desk, I check my personal phone and find a text from FOXY ROXY: How’s that boner-reducing outfit working out for you so far today?

  I respond with:

  FOXY ROXY: Huh?!?!

  ME: Neutral eggplant. No idea what’s going on with him. Thanks for letting me dress like this in public, btw.

  FOXY ROXY: It hurts me as much as it hurts you … and the eyeballs of everyone who has to see you today.

  FOXY ROXY: This is how we learn, babycakes. Tomorrow is another day.

  14

  Aimee

  I wake up ten minutes before my alarm on Tuesday morning, because I’m so excited to get dressed. I’m not going to wear Roxy’s office porno outfit, but I am going to wear her second-string suggestion: the red Diane Von Furstenberg wrap dress that a former colleague in Ann Arbor once very inappropriately referred to as being “just mean to people with penises who are trying to work over here.” I beg to differ. If Diane Von Furstenberg designed it, then it is perfectly suited for day-to-night business lady apparel. Even though my only plans for tonight involve typing up reports and figuring out what I’m going to wear for an encore tomorrow.

  When Roxy walks out of the bathroom and sees me, she says, “Now that’s what I’m talking about.”

  I try to ignore my gut reaction—which is to do the opposite of anything Roxy would approve of—and respond to her high-five.

  “That’ll put a tingle in his dongle.”

  “I mean. If he doesn’t want to date me, then I’ll have to move on and find someone who does. Right?”

  “You don’t actually believe he doesn’t want to date you?”

  “You don’t actually believe he does, do you?”

  She shakes her head and rolls her eyes. “First of all, you look so hot in that dress I think I might want to date you. Secondly, it’s like you need to be hit over the head with an erect penis before you understand how a guy feels about you. He never told you he doesn’t want to date you, dummy! If he didn’t really care about a future with you, he wouldn’t be trying so hard to keep his hands off of you when that other guy’s around.”

  “Then why doesn’t he want to see me at night or on the weekends?”

  “Because that would make it even harder for him to keep his hands off of you at the office.”

  “I thought you wanted me to give him blue balls.”

  “I do. I’m not saying I approve of his behavior; I’m just saying I understand it. It’s like when you’re trying to do a juice cleanse. You can’t lick the junk food in between juices to keep from eating it, cuz if you lick a potato chip you’re gonna eat that whole bag of chips. Just go to work with the same attitude you had yesterday, only not in an outfit that makes people want to vomit.”

  I hate it when I realize this woman is, in fact, more rational than I am. I hate it every single time I realize it. And now all I want to do is lick Chase McKay and eat a bag of potato chips.

  “It’s only three more weeks,” she continues. “Less than that. Even I can keep it in my pants around a guy I’m attracted to for that long.”

  Before I can laugh in her face and demand examples, I have to answer a call from my mom. I’ve been talking her through a minor annoyance that has been slowly becoming a minor crisis. Apparently, no one in the Gilpin family is good at dealing with problems head-on lately.

  By the time I get to the office, I’ve been ogled countless times, whistled at twice, and offered one marriage proposal from a construction worker. I’m feeling pretty good about things, until I catch sight of Chase McKay.

  Today, he’s wearing a button-down shirt, classic-fit vest, blazer and belted trousers, with beautiful cognac leather Oxford shoes. His hair is up in a loose man bun and he’s wearing glasses. It actually feels like I’ve been punched in the heart. He looks like a cover model for Professor Man Bun Quarterly. I don’t know if that’s a real magazine, but if it is, sign me up.

  He’s standing next to Greg Lee, reading something on the iPad that Greg’s holding up for him. When he sees me staring at him, he grins. I guess he took my suggestion to try harder to look so sexy that I’d throw myself at him. I also think he may be trying to kill me.

  Lady blue balls are real.

  My poor parents will have to explain to people that their daughter passed away after her vulva exploded in a freak workplace accident.

  I wonder if my life insurance covers that.

  Keaton isn’t in his office when I pass by, but Nora is watching me like a hawk. She might have seen me eye-boning Chase McNotOkayToDressLikeThatUnlessYouFuckMeDammit. She gives me a little nod, like she knows what’s up. She doesn’t know what’s up. I give her a casual wave and keep walking.

  Almost as soon as I’ve signed into Slack—the team messaging software that they use here—I receive a direct message from Tyler, the VP of Sales. I’ve been working with him quite closely on this project, and I get about twenty direct messages from him a day, and even more on the group channels. Tyler is very single, incredibly flirtatious, and totally harmless. I think. He’s so flirtatious that su
rely no woman can take him seriously.

  TYLER: Gooood morning, Red Dress! I’m so flattered that you dressed-up for my b-day. You and that dress better be here for my lunch party later.

  I forgot about the birthday lunch party, but if Tyler wants to think I dressed-up for him, so be it.

  AIMEE: Happy birthday to you! My dress and I have every intention of attending your lunch party. .

  AIMEE: I’ll have that report on flexible subscription pricing and distinct offerings to you tomorrow morning, FYI

  TYLER: As long as that distinctive red dress is part of the offer!

  AIMEE: Get back to work, Tyler

  Seconds later, I get a text on my personal phone, from Keaton. I look up and see that he’s in his office, looking out at me. He walks away from his window as soon as I see him. This is the first time he’s texted me since the day I told him I didn’t want to date him.

  KEATON: Hey, I’m hearing nothing but great things about your work here, FYI. You gonna be here for the birthday lunch thing later? It’s someone’s birthday, idk who, I’m just paying for it.

  Well, that’s a fairly harmless text, I suppose.

  ME: Hey, thank you so much for telling me that! I’m really enjoying it here, you guys have a great company. Yes, I will be here for Tyler’s party.

  KEATON:

  Still within the bounds of propriety.

  KEATON:

  Ahh, the winking face emoticon. Always a difficult one to read when received from a straight man. I don’t respond.

  My Slack app alerts me that I’ve received a direct message from Chase. Just seeing his face on the tiny icon gives me shameless butterflies.

  CHASE: I followed up with all of the customers we spoke with yesterday, btw. All good. Thx again for your help with that.

  AIMEE: My pleasure! It’s what I’m here for.

  I’m certainly not here for you to bend me over your desk or take me back up to the roof deck and make out with me again. Unfortunately.

  As soon as I’ve sent my response, I receive a message from him on one of the group channels, regarding customer support.

  I reply immediately, drag and drop my generic report on the subject, and several others join in on the conversation with questions for me.

  Meanwhile, I receive a text from Chase McKay on my personal cell phone. It’s the first time he’s ever sent me a text from his personal phone. I stop what I’m typing on my laptop so I can read it.

  CHASE MCKAY: Nice dress. In case you’re wondering, you’re still going to have to work a little harder to make yourself unattractive to me.

  No ellipses. No emojis. Just that.

  Lifting my ass up from my chair, I check to see if he’s even looking at me from his office. He isn’t. I can see the top of his man bun. He appears to be talking on his office phone.

  I text him back, knowing that if he had any idea his text came in after one from Keaton, he would stop texting me immediately.

  ME: Nice everything. But in case you haven’t noticed, I still haven’t thrown myself at you yet.

  Shit! I hit send before realizing I shouldn’t have typed the word “yet.”

  CHASE MCKAY: “Yet?”

  ME: That was a typo. I meant “yep.” As in: Yep, that’s right. Still not throwing myself at you.

  I look up at my laptop screen and see that Chase has sent me another message on a group Slack channel, about marketing.

  I respond with another question.

  He sends back a Slack message that says: Yep.

  I get an iMessage from Foxy Roxy and open up my Messages app on my laptop so I don’t look like I’m constantly texting on my phone. Fortunately, there’s no one seated behind me at this office.

  FOXY ROXY: How many penis dragons has the red dress slayed so far?

  AIMEE: I AM NEVER TAKING YOUR ADVICE ABOUT ANYTHING! EVER AGAIN! I MEAN EVER!!!

  TYLER: Whoa! Calm down, Red Dress! Who was that directed at?

  GREG: If a woman is yelling, she’s yelling at you, @Tyler.

  JULIA: Word. Although, @Chase does give pretty bad advice about work/life balance.

  CHASE: Yep.

  AIMEE: I am so sorry, you guys! That message was meant for someone else.

  TYLER: Aww, her emoji matches her dress today.

  CHASE: Get back to work, Tyler.

  TYLER:

  I get a text from Chase McKay on my phone.

  CHASE MCKAY: Let me guess. Roxy dressed you again today.

  ME: You don’t know me!

  ME: I’m really never taking her advice on anything ever again ever, though.

  CHASE MCKAY: And I’m still a big fan of her work.

  I look up when his door opens. He walks out and over to Greg’s office, without glancing over at me. He’s just grinning and shaking his head.

  Yep. He’s trying to kill me.

  Once again, I should have brought an alternate outfit. It’s not even lunch yet, and this red dress is wearing me out. I was a lot more productive yesterday.

  15

  Chase

  I’ve learned a lot in the past week.

  I’ve learned that Aimee Gilpin is hot as hell, and I have to fight every urge to rip her clothes off, even when she’s dressed like my nonna. I’ve learned that refraining from saying or doing the things that I desperately want to say and do to her does absolutely nothing to curb my intense physical attraction to her, but I’ve become a world class champion at hiding it.

  I’ve learned that she’s one of the best and most reliable business consultants I’ve ever met, and despite the very unprofessional circumstances we’ve found ourselves in, she is every bit the professional we need her to be. I’ve learned that if I stay at the office after she’s gone, I can still smell her when I walk past her desk, and I am an asshole for sitting at her desk over the weekend while thinking about our night together and stubbornly refusing to call her.

  I’ve learned that seeing her in a red dress is just as arousing as seeing her naked and knowing that other men are seeing her in that dress right now makes my blood boil.

  The catering that I ordered from Tyler’s restaurant of choice is set up in the center of our office, and he’s already suckered Aimee into singing “You’re the One That I Want” with him on the karaoke machine. I need another drink. I may have to break my “one beer per person” rule for this lunch party. I may have to break the karaoke machine. And I may have to fire Tyler.

  Keaton brings his sushi plate over to sit next to me. With his wide eyes staring at me, I know exactly what he’s thinking: “Fuck me, how am I supposed to stay away from that woman?”

  I pat him on the knee. I don’t know, just stay the fuck away from her, my friend, so I don’t have to punch you.

  “How’s it going with Quinn?” I ask, as if it’s easy to maintain a conversation while Tyler’s doing a shitty John Travolta imitation and Aimee’s being sexy in a completely adorable way twenty feet from us.

  “Good! Great. She wants to meet you.”

  “Yeah? She met your parents yet?”

  “Not yet. Dinner at Per Se soon.”

  “Good. Glad to hear it.”

  He sighs. “Having to cross the bridge five times a week is a pain in the ass.”

  “You thinking of moving back to Manhattan?”

  “No.” He shifts around in his seat. “Maybe.” He drops his tuna roll back onto the plate. “Where’s this sushi from? It’s sub-par.”

  “KanaHashi. They’re clients. We love them. You don’t like anyone’s takeout.”

  “I like your mom’s takeout.”

  “That’s because she gives you free panna cotta.”

  “We should only order from your mom for these things.”

  Neither of us has taken our eyes off of Aimee this whole time.

  “The sight of Aimee holding a micropho
ne up to her mouth while absentmindedly licking her lips is what finally killed him,” is what they’ll carve into my tombstone.

  Keaton groans, quietly, and lowers his voice. “I only want her because I can’t have her, right?”

  “Without a doubt.”

  “I think I’ll go grab a bite somewhere else. Is that rude?”

  “Nawww. If anything, everyone will be glad you spared them your Jay-Z impression.”

  “I get no respect around here,” he says as he stands up.

  I tear my eyes away from Aimee one second too late. He catches me gazing at her, and frowns. He gets that flash in his eyes, the one I first saw back at Wharton when he started to suspect that his girlfriend had a thing for me. Denial would be the wrong play here, so I shrug my shoulders and mouth the words, “red dress.”

  He half-smiles. “What’re you gonna do?”

  “Yep. Go call your girlfriend. Be back for our two-thirty meeting.”

  Keaton has mastered the art of leaving a party early without drawing attention to himself. Now, if I can just get that fucking birthday boy out of here, I might be able to enjoy my lunch. Mercifully, the Grease song ends, and I join my employees in applauding the performances.

  Nora gets up to sing “Total Eclipse of the Heart,” as usual, before anyone can stop her. Greg comes over to chat with me, a welcome distraction. I manage to look away from Aimee only five brief times—each time I feel her turning her attention towards me. It’s perfectly clear to me that she’s not interested in Tyler, and she’s just as gracious and subtle in her way of handling this as she was with Keaton, but it’s bugging me to see him dance around her like an idiot. He’s one of the few other totally single guys here, but the only one who’s shamelessly hitting on her. I hate that no one knows how I feel about her, and I hate that I’m the one who’s ultimately responsible for this.