What’s Your Sign?: A Romantic Comedy

by Monroe, Lila

  I rush through the rest of the morning at top speed, and it’s not until I’m sitting on the subway that I have a moment to think.

  About Justin.

  What else could I possibly think about right now? Is it going to be totally awkward to see him again after our epic makeout?

  Correction: our second epic makeout.

  I blush, wondering if the third time would be the charm—

  Nope! Down, girl. I try to think calm, professional thoughts. Somehow I can’t believe he spent all night tossing and turning, wondering what would have happened if he’d come upstairs to the apartment and lay me down in bed, then spread my thighs wider and—

  “Aah-choo!”

  I wince as the fantasy is cut short by the wet, echoing sneeze of a businessman across the subway car. I edge closer to the door and thank the heavens for the hand sanitizer in my purse, reminding myself that there’s no way Justin’s spending his commute thinking about me this way.

  Still . . .

  What if he is?

  I’m so distracted I spill my coffee and nearly collide with Ken from the mailroom in the hallway of the Gazette offices; I barely hear anything Carl says at our morning staff meeting, I’m so focused on the sight of Justin’s door across the bullpen. I suck in a quiet breath when it finally opens and he emerges in a pair of dark jeans and a casual black T-shirt.

  Dammit, does he have to be so handsome?

  I watch surreptitiously as he chats with Leon at the Metro desk and compliments Lori on her copyediting work in this morning’s edition. Then—almost as an afterthought—he glances in my direction.

  “Oh hey, Natalie,” he says, like possibly he’s just remembered paperwork he needs me to copy, or perhaps some menial errand that will involve me schlepping to South Jersey. “Can you come in here for a sec?”

  “Um, sure thing.” I swallow hard, feeling my cheeks warm—and my stomach do a traitorous flip.

  I smooth my suddenly sweaty palms on the seat of my skinny jeans and follow him into his office. “What’s up?” I ask once I’ve closed the door behind me, as brightly and professionally as I can manage. I think I do a passable job, especially considering the fact that I basically want to lick him all over his body.

  Focus, Natalie.

  “I just wanted to clear the air after last night,” he says, his voice oddly formal—the same tone I imagine him using when he’s delivering a status update to the Rockford board. He’s put the desk between us, I can’t help but notice, sitting stiffly in his giant leather chair with both hands flattened on the blotter, like he wants to be absolutely clear he’s not about to try any funny business—no matter how much I might want him to. “I owe you an apology.”

  An apology? For the hottest kiss of my life?

  “Justin—” I start, but he cuts me off.

  “I got caught up in the moment,” he continues, his expression clear and business-like. “You’re my assistant, I’m your boss. It was unprofessional on my part, and I’m sorry.” He clears his throat. “Obviously it didn’t mean anything.”

  I suck in a breath. Disappointment crashes through me, but I refuse to show any emotion.

  “Of course not.” I nearly trip over myself to agree. Ugh, the last thing I want is for him to think I’m some pathetic assistant with a teenage crush on him, doodling his name on my Trapper Keeper and plucking the petals off daisies in Central Park.

  Especially if he doesn’t feel the same way.

  It definitely seemed like he felt the same way when his thigh was pressed between my legs right there in the middle of the sidewalk, I can’t help thinking. Then again, what do I know?

  “I completely agree,” I say now, plastering a smile on my face. “These things happen. Blame it on the, um, sugar high. We’ll keep it totally professional going forward.”

  “Great,” Justin nods.

  “Great!” I echo, then raise my hand in an awkward wave. “So I guess I’ll . . . get back to work, then.”

  Justin is already looking at his computer. “Sounds like a plan,” he says mildly.

  I keep that same bright smile pasted on my face as I make my way back to my cube. I flop down into my chair and take a gulp of what’s left of my coffee.

  It’s cold.

  Of course it is.

  “Natalie?” Carl stops by my cubicle. “Justin wants you—”

  “He does?” My head snaps up. Maybe he’s had second thoughts. Maybe the sight of me in my This is What a Feminist Looks Like T-shirt filled his heart with longing. Maybe—

  “He wants you to get started on the archive,” Carl finishes. “The big reorganization? I would grab some overalls,” he adds, shooting me a sympathetic look. “I don’t think anyone’s been down there since 1982. Good luck!”

  * * *

  I spend the day buried in the archives, up to my eyeballs in dust and old newsprint. By the time five o’clock rolls around, I’m looking forward to drowning my sorrows in a giant basket of tortilla chips and a strong margarita or three. But when I show up at Guero’s, I don’t see April or Poppy posted up in our usual corner of the bar. I find a seat and order a cocktail while I wait, then pull my phone out of my purse: Running late! April texted a few minutes ago, followed by a grimace emoji from Poppy: Me too! Last minute client emergency. Be there ASAP.

  I sigh, stirring my drink idly with a cocktail straw. It feels oddly fitting that today has ended up with me sitting alone at a bar with only a vat of tortilla chips for company. Not that I’m complaining. I could be sitting alone at a bar without the chips. But five minutes turns into twenty—with another set of apologetic texts—and I’m halfway through my Paloma when a finance bro with a corny Ralph Lauren polo shirt and a Macklemore haircut plunks himself down beside me. “Hey there,” he says, the little lady implicit. “Drinking alone?”

  “Waiting for someone.” I smile as tightly as humanly possible and hope he gets the message to buzz off.

  No such luck: “Me too,” he says, helping himself to a handful of my chips. “Although, I give her five more minutes before I spend the evening with you instead.”

  “I’d deeply prefer you didn’t,” I reply.

  He laughs. “Feisty! I like that.”

  “Please leave me alone,” I tell him, trying to make eye contact with the bartender.

  “Aww, c’mon, let me buy you a drink. Loosen you up a little.”

  There is no elasticity in the world that would make me drink with this guy, but I’m trying to figure out how to communicate that in a way that isn’t just ripping his arm off and taking my chips back when my phone loudly buzzes on the bar: Justin.

  I jolt, trying to ignore the full-body thrill that rushes through me at the sight of his name on the screen. I snatch up the handset.

  “Hey,” Justin says when I answer, “sorry to bother you after hours. Do you have any idea where I could find paperwork on this month’s ad revenue? I don’t know if you’ve noticed this, but my files are . . . kind of a disaster.”

  Disaster is understating it, frankly. I’m about to tell him so when suddenly I get an idea. “Oh no,” I say loudly into the receiver, glancing at Wells Fargo Macklemore with wide eyes. “An emergency? That’s terrible.”

  “Huh?” Justin sounds confused. “No, it’s not a big deal, I just—”

  “Of course, I can come and help you. Hold on tight, I’ll be right there.” I hang up before he can answer.

  “Where you going, baby doll?” my suitor asks.

  I shudder. “Away.” I throw some cash down on the bar and skedaddle out into the dusky September evening before I commit grievous bodily harm and spend the night in jail for my crimes.

  I count that as a win.

  It’s a beautiful evening, cool and just this side of crisp, and I glance up at the pink-purple sky as I consider my options. I could call Justin back from out here; I have a pretty good idea where to find the files he needs, and that way, I could head home.

  But where would the fun-slash-self-tormen
t be in that?

  I find myself heading back to the mostly empty Gazette offices instead, trying not to think too hard about my choice. I’m being a helpful assistant! The thought of spending an evening with Justin has absolutely nothing to do with it. But when I step off the elevator and find him alone in the conference room, shirt sleeves rolled up and his hair all rumpled, there’s no point kidding myself.

  I just want him, that’s all.

  I take a deep breath. “Hey,” I greet him, pulling the file out of one of the many teetering piles on the windowsill. I hand it over with a flourish. “Ad revenue details, at your service.”

  “You didn’t have to come all the way down here for that,” he says, looking surprised. “I would have found it.”

  I arch an eyebrow.

  “Eventually,” he admits, smiling. “Everything OK? You sounded weird on the phone.”

  “Everything’s great,” I promise. “Your call was just . . . very well timed.” I explain as quickly as I can about Bear Stearns Adam Levine, pleased that Justin seems just as outraged over the several counts of Grand Theft Tortilla Chip as I was.

  “I mean, that’s one way to get a woman’s attention,” he laughs. “The sad part is, it’s not even the worst pickup strategy I’ve ever heard. Like, I knew a guy in college who used to try to pick girls up by asking if they fell out of a vending machine.” Then, off my presumably blank expression, he explains: “. . . Because they were such a snack.”

  I snort with laughter. “Did that ever actually work?”

  “More than you might expect, sadly.”

  “Then he must have been hot.” I lean back against the bookshelf, narrowly avoiding sending a mountain of invoices tumbling to the floor. “Do you need a hand in here?” I ask, looking around at the mess in his office. “I’m not going to lie to you, your organizational systems leave a little something to be desired.”

  Justin gives a rueful smile. “What are you saying? I know where everything is,” he says, joking.

  “Sure you do.” I pause. “Well . . . Now you have the file, I should be going.”

  “Have you eaten?” Justin asks suddenly.

  “Um, not yet,” I reply, thinking longingly of those tacos that had my name on them.

  “Pizza?” he offers. “I could use the help with this data.”

  “Yes please,” I answer immediately, but it’s not the prospect of double pepperoni that makes me pull up a chair at the conference table. No, I’ve got another delicious treat on my mind . . .

  Ahem.

  Justin orders delivery and produces a couple of beers from . . . somewhere. “Secret stash, huh?” I tease, clinking my bottle to his.

  “Perks of being the boss.” He grins.

  We get stuck into the paperwork, and soon, all the awkwardness melts away with the lateness of the hour and the arrival of our cheesy pizza.

  “Best in the city,” Justin vows, inhaling a slice so fast, he gets sauce all over his chin.

  “No way,” I insist. “It’s good, don’t get me wrong, but not even top five. My rankings are scientifically designed,” I continue, stringing a perfect strand of melty cheese all the way to the slice. “I take my work seriously.”

  He chuckles. “Clearly.”

  We put the papers aside to eat, and our conversation meanders, trading war stories about single life. “I went on a blind date with a girl once and like twenty minutes into dinner I realized she was my cousin,” Justin confesses with a grimace. “Second cousin, but still. We’d definitely met as kids.”

  “So when do I get the wedding invite?” I tease.

  He laughs. “Um, never! What about you?” he asks, taking a swig of his beer. “What was your worst date ever?”

  “Take your pick,” I sigh, leaning back in my chair and nibbling a piece of pizza crust. “The guy who showed up with his mom in the car? Or the guy who didn’t show up at all?” My lips twist. “But hey, that’s the point of your twenties, right? To go on bad dates so you’ve got good stories when you finally meet the right person?” I try to sound carefree. “I figure he’s got to be out there somewhere, doesn’t he?”

  Justin nods slowly, his gaze even and inscrutable. “Somewhere,” is all he says.

  Neither of us says anything for a moment, the air between us crackling; all at once it occurs to me the office is completely deserted. Even the cleaning crew has gone home.

  Just for a second, I let myself wonder how sturdy this table is.

  Then Justin clears his throat. “I should probably get going,” he says, glancing at his watch and getting to his feet, abandoning a slice of pizza on the paper plate in front of him. “I’ve, ah. Got plans across town.”

  “Oh!” I say, too loudly. Of course he does. God, just because I didn’t have anything better going on tonight doesn’t mean the same is true for him. He’s probably got some hot model waiting for him at a swanky rooftop bar. “Sure, of course. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  Justin nods. “Thanks again for your help tonight,” he says with an easy smile, swinging his messenger bag over his shoulder and heading for the doorway. Just like that, he’s gone, leaving me alone with my thoughts . . .

  . . . and half a supreme pizza.

  “My one true love,” I mutter, then pick up a slice and dig in. Clearly, tonight wasn’t written in the stars.

  10

  Natalie

  After our missed tequila connection, I meet Poppy and April for breakfast the next morning. I still need their advice, and more than ever now, after last night, so the three of us cram around a tiny corner table at our favorite coffee shop in Park Slope—a hidden gem with vintage tile floors and a huge mirror flaked with gold leaf along one wall.

  “I don’t get it,” I say, picking at a pumpkin muffin—it’s that time of year, the smell of cloves and cinnamon everywhere. “He’s running so hot and cold, which normally I can’t stand in a guy. But with Justin for some reason it just makes me want him more?”

  “Sounds like he wants you, too,” April says, wrapping her hands around her latte and offering me a knowing smile. “Maybe he’s just skittish because he’s your boss.”

  “Maybe,” I allow, thinking again of that long, loaded look that passed between us in his office last night. Then my expression darkens. “Or maybe he’s got some gorgeous swimsuit model waiting for him back at his loft every night with whipped cream sprayed up her—”

  “Maybe it’s the money thing,” Poppy interrupts before I can finish the thought. “Money can make everything weird.”

  I smirk. “Is that what you tell Dylan to his face?” The two of them have been dating for a few months now, and he’s forever whisking her off for impromptu dinners at Blue Hill and spontaneous weekends at a luxury hotel in the Catskills. Which he owns.

  If that’s weird, go ahead and sign me up.

  “It is, actually.” Poppy grins, forking off a bite of avocado toast. “I mean, don’t get me wrong, the perks are amazing—

  “Come on, his apartment!” April exclaims.

  We all sigh. That is one gorgeous apartment. “He even has laundry. In his guest bathroom!” Poppy agrees. “But still, I definitely feel the difference between our income sometimes, and I want to pay my own way. And if we get a place together . . . I understand if it makes things weird with Justin, that’s all.”

  “Whoa there,” I stop her. “I’m still trying to make out with a guy, not move in with him!”

  “Maybe he just needs a nudge in the right direction?” April suggests.

  “You should put it in the next astrology column,” Poppy agrees. “The stars align for a hot hookup.”

  I laugh. “Maybe. I’m going to need to figure something out there,” I say, biting my lip. “It was one thing to cover for Pearl in an emergency, but now it’s turning into a regular gig . . . How am I going to find someone else without revealing I’ve been filling in for her in the meantime?”

  “You’ll think of something,” Poppy reassures me. “Hey,” she conti
nues, reaching across the table to sneak a piece of my muffin, “do you have time for that freelance gig I mentioned a couple of weeks ago? One of my clients is looking for some sexy emails to spice things up with her husband.”

  “Sounds saucy,” April says, wiggling her eyebrows playfully.

  “I need it to be,” Poppy confirms. “And Nat over here is the best with the dirty talk.”

  “Why thank you!” I’ve taken on jobs for Poppy plenty of times before, and it’s true I have a certain knack for a naughty turn of phrase, if I do say so myself. “I’d love to.” Let’s be real, I should probably try to score all the freelance work I can, since I still don’t know if the Gazette is even going to exist by Halloween. “Send me the info and I’ll get it back to you ASAP.”

  “Will do,” Poppy says. “The dirtier the better! Let your freak flag fly”

  * * *

  When I get to the office and check the calendar, I realize Justin’s scheduled to be out all morning, meeting with advertisers across town. On one hand I’m glad—my brain needs a break from the constant whirl of trying to figure him out, not to mention a chance to get some actual writing done—but on the other, I miss the thrill of catching sight of him out of the corner of my eye. Still, I manage to get a good start on tomorrow’s horoscopes before I need to leave for my lunch date with my mom. She’s been coming into the city to see the same hairstylist in Midtown since she was in her twenties, and now that I’m at the Gazette we always make a point to meet at her favorite soup-and-salad spot.

  “How’s work going?” she asks once we’ve ordered, her brand-new-highlights gleaming. I only hope I look as good as her in twenty years. “I read online there are a bunch of budget issues at the newspaper.”

  “You read online, huh?” I ask with a knowing look.