by Becky Monson
And now? Now I run into Nathan’s best friend, roommate, and business partner, who has never liked me, and I’m quite sure is one of the reasons things ended like they did. The way Nathan broke it off wreaked of Logan, actually.
“How . . . are you?” he asks, his fingers extending and then clenching into fists at his sides. Even with my average height and three-inch heels he has to peer down at me, his sea-blue eyes searching my face as he does. He looks . . . nervous.
Nervous is not a word I would use for Logan Palmer. Standoffish, brooding, apathetic, and dismissive, sure. Also, maybe some more colorful words . . . like a particular one referring to a donkey. But definitely not nervous. It’s probably because this is the first time we’ve seen each other since Nathan and I broke up, and he’s not sure how to act toward me. To be honest, I’m feeling a little nervous myself, but that’s not an uncommon feeling for me to have around Logan.
This Logan standing in front of me now, with all the hand fidgeting and eye blinking, is not at all what I was expecting when I saw him again. I had hoped to never see him again after Nathan and I broke up because I figured when I did, he’d have some sort of crap-eating grin on his face. Or some kind of smug look, since Logan isn’t one to smile all that much. He never said aloud how much he hated Nathan and me together, but he didn’t have to. No, he made that pretty obvious with all the glares and eye rolls.
“I’m good,” I finally answer him, keeping my words to a minimum. This is a lie, of course. He’s the cherry on top of my day-from-hell sundae.
“That’s good,” he says, now tapping a hand on his thigh. A grumbling and fizzing sound erupts from the espresso machine only a few feet away from us, and not long after, the scent of freshly brewed coffee grounds wafts our way.
“And you?” I ask, although I don’t really care. What I need to do is keep searching my phone for articles on how to make my employees like me. Which was what I was doing before Mr. Stick-Up-His-Butt interrupted me.
So far, all the articles I’ve found require too much work, so that’s why I’m settling for the next best thing to help me win my team’s affections: bribery. That’s why I’m at the Lava Java—a place I haven’t graced with my presence in three weeks—to get coffee and scones for my team.
“I’m doing good,” Logan says, still tapping his hand on his leg. “Just working,” he adds, giving a quick nod over at a booth in the corner of the coffee shop.
“Right,” I say.
And that would be the reason I haven’t been to the Lava Java—a place I used to frequent nearly every day before Nathan and I broke up. Because Logan works here. Well, he doesn’t work-work here, he’s just taken up residence here, working from his laptop in the corner booth that’s basically been permanently reserved for him. I’m pretty sure there are imprints of his backside in the fake leather seat.
In the beginning it was him and Nathan working here because their apartment—which is only a quarter of a mile away—was “stifling their creativity,” or something. Eventually Nathan found his creativity back at the apartment, and Logan stayed here. He’s on a first name basis with the staff and has a running tab. Nathan also had a tab—and I’m still on it. I did feel a bit guilty when the barista who took my order automatically charged it to him. But only a bit. I’ll fix it next time I come in.
“I . . . haven’t seen you in a while,” Logan says.
“Well . . . you know,” I say, not needing to finish that sentence.
“Yeah,” he says. He reaches up and scratches the back of his neck.
I’m quite baffled by the Logan standing in front of me. He’s so . . . not like him. Of course, it’s not like we have had the most in-depth conversations for me to understand who he is. Most of what I know about Logan is from things Nathan has told me. Or things I garnered myself from the few actual conversations we’ve had.
“So . . . I . . . uh,” he starts.
I pull my chin down, my head slightly tilted. “Logan,” I say in a reproachful tone, cutting him off.
“Yeah?”
I purse my lips together, briefly. “We don’t have to do this,” I say, the words practically vomiting out of my mouth. I’m going to give the guy a break. An out, really. He doesn’t need to feel obligated to talk to me. We don’t need to salvage anything between us because there’s no point. He’s never liked me. Even with the whole both being raised by our dads thing, we couldn’t find common ground. I tried and tried to get him to like me, since he’s Nathan’s best friend and I’m Nathan’s fiancée. Was. I was Nathan’s fiancée. I’ve been in the habit of calling myself that for so long, it’s hard to stop.
“We don’t have to do what?” he asks, his brows pulling inward.
“I—” I stop myself because I thought he would get where I was going since Logan’s a pretty smart guy. He’s developed a few genius apps, after all. Lucrative ones. But maybe those kinds of smarts don’t translate well into emotional intelligence.
“Order ready for Holly!” a woman with dark brown dreadlocks yells out from the pickup counter.
“We don’t have to do what?” Logan repeats, his tone tense, his stance more rigid.
I shake my head. It’s only 9:30 in the morning and it already feels like the longest day of my life. Do I really want to get into this now?
“Never mind. Don’t worry about it,” I say, deciding I don’t want to get into this right now. Maybe I’ll just go back to not coming to this particular coffee shop and settle for the craptastic coffee they offer in the break room. I wouldn’t even be here right now if it weren’t for the bribing.
I take the few steps to the counter and grab the bag of scones and the container holding the drinks.
“Do you, uh . . . need help?” Logan asks, eyeing me as I try to balance everything.
“No, I’m good.” I probably do need help, but I don’t want it from Logan.
I offer him a goodbye over my shoulder and then head toward the door, hoping against hope that I don’t drop anything.
~*~
“Holly,” a higher-pitched voice sing-songs my name as I walk down the hall toward the break room. All I wanted was a cup of coffee—I didn’t have enough hands to grab myself one at the Lava Java, and I’m not going back there. Only one stinking cup of coffee. Is that too much to ask?
I let out a sigh as I stop in my tracks. I had hoped to avoid her today, but as I know all too well, Tiffany Brantley cannot be avoided. She’s like a rash that won’t go away.
Tiffany runs the fraud resolutions team and I run the complaint resolutions team—both of which are two small branches of the large customer service center that’s currently being run by Mike Caldwell. Mike, who is planning on leaving this summer, and whose position I thought was in the bag until three hours ago.
I’m not even supposed to know about the job, but Marie told me in confidence because she knew how hard I’ve been working toward it. But now that’s all up in the air, and I’ve got very little time to sort it all out. Especially since, at some point, Tiffany will find out about the job and she’ll be all over it. Like a rash.
She approaches me and as usual she’s in an impeccably tailored pantsuit—dark gray today—and not one bleached-blond hair out of place.
“Hello there, Holly,” Tiffany says, bright-eyed and full of spunk. I dig my fingernails into my palm, concentrating all my annoyance into them.
“What can I do for you, Tiffany?” I ask blandly. I want to get my coffee and then go back to my office where I can continue figuring out how to fix everything with my team. The bribery was well received, but I need to do more.
“I was wondering if your team is done with their report?” she asks, a condescending smile on her lips.
“Report?”
“Yes, my team needs the PFC report from your team. We can’t do ours without yours,” she says, again in her sing-song voice. Gosh, I want to slap her. Right across her perfectly made-up face.
It takes me only a second to recall what she’s tal
king about. The Possible Fraudulent Case Report, or PFC, was just established last week and Tiffany’s team relies on my team for the initial reporting.
The fact that she’s asking me for it means it’s late.
I will not freak out.
“Oh, right,” I say, willing myself to be cool and calm. “I’m sure it’s done. Probably got lost in the shuffle or something. I’ll check on it.” My caffeine trip now abandoned, I head toward the large office where my team sits.
Now’s my chance. I know we talked about this in our Friday meeting, so it might have been forgotten over the weekend. No big deal, honest oversight. Could happen to anyone.
I’m repeating this in my head because now is my opportunity to walk into my team’s office and show them I can be cool about this. Normally I would have marched in there and given them the what-for—kindly, of course. But not today. Today I’ll be calm and collected and my aura will ooze patience and understanding. I don’t need to go on a vacation to have a fresh start with my team; we can start right now. I will just tell them kindly that they need to get the report done today and I will not freak out.
I will not freak out. I will not freak out.
“Hey, team,” I say as I walk into the office where my team of five sits. The Sarahs—Sara, and Sarah—Avery, Jim, and Brad.
The room is fairly large and separated by cubicles. It has the typical fluorescent lighting most office buildings provide, but CT Anderson Bank saw fit to paint the walls in a bright shade of yellow. Like that might help them remember what color the sun is since they rarely get to see it working here. It smells of paper, over-worked desktop computer fans, and a hint of Axe body spray. That would be Jim’s doing.
Brad is just getting off a call, which means I have my entire team’s attention.
“So, hey,” I begin. “I just talked to Tiffany, and she’s looking for the PFC report that was due earlier today.”
They’re all looking at me blankly.
“You know, the Possible Fraudulent Case report? The one her team needs so they can do their report? We talked about it in the team meeting on Friday?”
Crickets.
Breathe in, Holly. Just breathe. You are cool. You are calm. You’re freaking collected.
“Oh!” Sara-without-an-h says, standing up from her chair. She twirls some of her blond-highlighted hair around her pointer finger.
“Yes?” I feel somewhat elated that at least one person remembered.
“Oh, wait,” she says, and sits down, her chair making a puffing sound as she does. “Never mind.”
“Um . . . okay, anyone else?” I ask, looking around the room at a bunch of vacant eyes.
“Is it, like, that report with the complaint cases that could be fraudulent?” Avery asks in her monotone voice as she stares up at me, her dark straight hair framing her face, her dark brown eyes full of irritation. She glares at me through her dark-rimmed glasses. This is her normal look. I can probably count how many times I’ve seen a genuine smile from Avery on one hand. Now that I think of it, I don’t think I’ve ever seen her smile genuinely.
“Yes!” I say, a little over-excited. “That’s right, Avery.” I beam at her and she recoils back in response, her nose wrinkling like she’s smelled something stinky.
Her response isn’t all that unexpected since I’ve never beamed at anyone in this office, or anyone ever. I laugh awkwardly, wanting to be done here.
Think about the promotion, I tell myself. You can do this.
“So, can you guys get it done?” I ask, scanning the room.
“Yeah,” Brad says, not even looking up from his computer. His hair is wild and his bangs are long and practically cover his eyes and I so badly want to clip them back with a bobby pin or something—or at least introduce him to some gel. Like me, he’s a ginger and reminds me a lot of Ron from Harry Potter, but without the British accent that would help his awkwardness. “Can you just remind us what it is . . . uh . . . exactly?” he asks.
I pause, my eyes searching their faces. Surely they can’t all have forgotten. I mean, I know it was on Friday, and they probably had Friday-brain. But I’m sure we talked about it.
Okay, Holly, this is an opportunity. The gods of job-promoting are shining down on you. Even though I know we’ve discussed this, I can use this to show my team that it’s all good.
It’s alllllllll gooooooood.
I take a deep breath, then explain it to them once again.
“Any questions?” I ask after I’ve finished.
“Um, yeah,” Jim, says from his cubicle. He’s wearing his normal outfit of ratty jeans and a polo. He pushes his glasses up on his nose. “Could you repeat the last part? I think I missed it.”
“Which part?”
“That one part, about the complaint stats . . . or something.”
“So, all the parts,” I say slowly.
He nods, as do the Sarahs. Brad has still not looked up from his computer, and the only person who looks like they understood anything is Avery. I start to breathe a little heavier, many emotions filling my belly as I stare at my team. Frustration being the top of that list of emotions. Murderous being the second.
Okay, calm down, Holly. I need to think of what I would usually do right now, and do the opposite. Deep, deep breath.
What I normally would do is tell them how to do the report once again. This time I would probably use a more stern and frustrated tone. I see now that this might have been construed as hovering . . . or possibly micromanaging.
So therefore, I will not do any of that.
“Okay, so I think we’re good here?” I say, knowing by their blank stares that we are so not good here. But I’ve explained the process twice, so they can figure it out. This is me not hovering.
“Wait, you’re just going to leave?” Brad asks, his eyebrows knitted together.
“I … have full faith in you,” I say, not intending for that to come out as robot-like as it did.
I give them my best you’ve-got-this smile, and then I leave their office, shutting the door and feeling quite proud of myself.
Maybe this whole fixing my relationship with my team will be faster than I thought.
Chapter 3
“What the H is he doing here?” Quinn, my best friend of fourteen years, asks after following my gaze from our table to the entrance of Hester’s, where, waiting by the hostess stand, are Nathan, my ex-fiancé, and Logan, who I’ve now seen twice in one day.
What the H, indeed.
I’d just been telling my friends about my not-so-great day and now it looks like my evening isn’t going to be much better. I was about to ask my friends for advice about work before those two buttheads waltzed in. Of all the restaurants in Central Florida …
Every Monday night since I started working at my big girl job, I’ve met up with my friends for dinner at Hester’s, a quaint restaurant within walking distance from the office, and also not far from my condo. Quinn, Bree, and Alex are here, but Thomas is late. As usual.
Not so long ago, Nathan and Logan used to be a fixture in our weekly meet-up, but they haven’t been here on a Monday night since the breakup. At least, until tonight.
“Do you want me to punch him? I’ll punch him, Hols. Just say the word,” says Alex, who works at the bank with me. He’s got his game face on, his bright blue eyes wide like he’s ready for a throw-down.
“It’s okay,” I say. Although picturing muscly Alex take down lithe Nathan does make me a little happy.
It’s a fairly crowded night at Hester’s, and Nathan and Logan have yet to see us. Or they have and are pretending like they haven’t. Either option works for me.
“Look at him,” Bree says with a head bob toward the hostess stand. The martini in her hand almost looks ridiculous with her messy blond bun, cutoff jean shorts, and white tee. But in an odd way, it works for Bree. “Who does he think he is, coming into our territory?” She squints over at the hostess stand.
“Our territory?” I huff a laugh ou
t my nose. “Yeah, you guys, this isn’t West Side Story. Nathan can go where he wants.” Let’s be honest, I’m actually feeling a little territorial right now.
This isn’t the first time I’ve seen Nathan since he called off our wedding. About a week after he ended things, I decided that maybe we could try being friends. I didn’t want to lose him altogether, after all. He’d been such a big part of my life for so long. So we had coffee one day to discuss our friend-ness and it didn’t go so well. Nathan was all gung-ho about the friend thing. I, on the other hand, after seeing his stupid face, felt the need to pour coffee on his head. I didn’t, of course. I threw a muffin at him. It didn’t have quite the effect I was going for. In hindsight, I may have rushed the whole friend thing.
Even now, two weeks post muffingate, seeing him standing at the front of Hester’s waiting for a table, I’m not sure I want to be friends with him.
“This is a bunch of S,” Quinn says, a whining tone in her voice. “Hester’s is our place.”
Quinn has recently taken a vow of non-swearing after a slip of the tongue nearly got her fired from her midday news reporting job. Said slip of the tongue also made her quasi-famous on the internet, but that’s another story. So, because she’s not really keen on losing her job, she’s taken to cussing with initial letters and has required that we all do the same. Thomas is the only one who won’t get on board.
“Last I looked, Hester’s is a public place,” I say, trying a hand at being impartial. “Anyone can come here.” It’s actually a very stereotypical place for late-twenty-somethings to hang out, with its kitschy décor, subpar food, and throwback turn-of-the-century music. And until three weeks ago, Nathan and Logan were able to hang out here on Mondays without any protest from my friends. Funny how a breakup can affect so many areas of your life.
“Yeah, but couldn’t you have negotiated rights in the divorce?” Quinn asks, batting her dark blue eyes at me. She twists in her chair, tugging on the neck of the black knit dress she’s wearing.
“There was no divorce, because there was no marriage. Thank you very much,” I say reaching up and aligning my knife and fork next to my now empty wine glass. Quinn gives me an apologetic expression.
