I take a couple of steps away when I hear soft laughter mixed with a breathy sigh. I’m the joke of everything. Everything. All the time. I press my palms into the door and force myself out into the brisk winds of winter in New England. I make it to my car when I realize I don’t have my goddamn coffee. I’m not going back in there. No way. It’s bad enough I have to see Logan all day and play the role of his boss.
I hit the button on my key fob and open my door just as a decorative Styrofoam cup is dangled in front of my face. “Forget something?” Logan asks. His voice is deeper than the passing wind, and the sound thuds against my chest, causing everything inside of me to reverberate.
“Kind of,” I tell him.
“You were going to leave without your coffee?”
“Kind of,” I say again.
“You know I was just messing with you, right?”
“Kind of.” A smirk presses against my lips even though I try to fight it off. I was out of line by asking him his age. It shouldn’t be something to smile about.
“You know my age can be Googled, right?”
Why didn’t I think of that? Why? Because I shouldn’t be thinking about him after work or before work, period. So, at least, he knows I wasn’t crazy enough to start Googling him. I should Google him. “Of course, I know that. I know what Google is, in case you were wondering.”
“I wasn’t wondering,” he replies. “And I’m thirty-five.” He’s older than me by two years. I’m not technically an old hag to him. Though, he might think I am since he doesn’t know my age.
“You’re thirty-three, right?”
“Did you Google me?” I ask playfully, with shock ripping through my words.
“Kind of,” he plays back.
“My age is on Google?” Why would my age be on Google?
“Facebook, actually,” he says.
Crap. I thought I disabled that. I shouldn’t be allowed online.
“Do you get that a lot?” I ask, pointing at the front door of the coffee shop? “Recognized, I mean?”
“Sometimes,” he says. “It hurts more than it flatters me. I miss baseball.”
“I can imagine.” Stop getting lost in his bluish, greenish, grayish eyes. He has very pretty eyes for a man.
“Oh, how’s the little princess doing?” The way he says princess in his gruff voice makes me want to giggle like a young girl, but I control myself and clear my throat.
“She’s pretty sick. I left her with her father for the day.”
Logan presses his lips together as they curl at one side. “Poor thing. You probably just want to be home with her, huh?”
I’m struck with awe that he understands this. Not that it’s hard to understand, but I kind of assumed that because he doesn’t have kids, and since my ex-husband can’t grasp the understanding, that no man would get it.
“Home with her is the only place I want to be today,” I tell him.
“I’m sorry,” he offers. “I’m sure she’s in good hands, though.”
The laughter flows freely. It was funny. I can’t help it. In good hands. “Let me put it this way. I would have been better off leaving her with the cashier in the coffee shop.”
“Ouch,” he says with a snicker.
“Thanks for asking, though, really.” I slide into my seat and place my almost forgotten coffee down into the cup holder. “I’ll see you in a few minutes.”
He waves silently before heading off in the opposite direction, which gives me the opportunity to stare at his butt that fills in his blue dress pants very precisely. I am officially a pig. That’s a funny realization, considering my opinion of Rick.
The office is in the next parking lot over, but I feel the need to compose myself for a few minutes before making the fifteen-second drive. I cannot be looking at Logan’s ass anymore. I cannot ask him any more inappropriate questions. I need to forget about his looks and charm, oh, and the way he was with Cora yesterday. It should all be forgotten. I’m his boss. Boss lady. That’s me; I stick to the rules.
Chapter Six
Still humping along and it’s not even nine o’clock
I WAITED A GOOD FIVE minutes and played three high-scoring words on Words With Friends with Aunt May while trying to forget about the fact that there’s still no Dickle to play with. I’m sure Logan made his way upstairs by now. I didn’t want to walk in together because the last thing I need is for anyone to speculate and start rumors. It would take very little for some of the lovely gentlemen I work with to come up with a juicy story.
I do my best to keep my head down as I head toward my office, acting like it isn’t the least bit awkward when I walk by Logan’s cube. I try not to look, but he’s staring right at me as if he were waiting for me. Of course, he eases the discomfort by adding in a quick wink as he takes a sip of his coffee.
Is he trying to make me squirm?
I drop down into my office chair, feeling a bit breathless. Either age is catching up with me, or Logan has managed to take my breath away.
Forget about him. It’s distracting. It’s not going to happen. I already have enough to deal with in my life right now. Move forward. Work.
With a long blink, I go through the list of items I need to accomplish today. I need to take complete advantage since I’m getting an extra full day in the office this week. At the least, I can make up for the time I lost yesterday.
“Chickadee,” Brielle sings as she dances into my office. “Look at you with a fancy coffee again? Two days in a row?” She looks surprised because she knows I don’t usually have time to stop for coffee.
“Rick has Cora, so I splurged on my ‘me’ time,” I tell her.
“Totes,” she says with a high-pitched giggle as she plops down in my guest chair. “So, as you know, we have the expo next week, and our promotional materials should be in today, so we’ll need to organize that when it arrives.”
Crap. Why did I think we had another two weeks before the expo? I lose track of time so easily. Maybe I’m losing my mind, which would explain why I couldn’t remember my phone number the other day. “You booked our flights and stuff, right?”
“Of course, like three months ago. However, I didn’t book anything for Logan. Is he joining?”
One minute while I put fantasy together in my head before I give you a decision. All I can envision is a super-hot, thin version of me climbing into bed with Logan. It would be a pretty big letdown if he came because I know that wouldn’t be happening. Plus, if I were to imagine he has a thing for thirty-something-year-old hot messes, it would require grooming that I’ve ignored for almost a year, which is terrible. That’s why I don’t use the bathroom fan when I take a shower. It needs to be all steamy in there before I go near a mirror.
“I don’t know if it’s a good idea,” I tell her. “He just started. I think he should be focused on other projects.”
“I think he should come,” she argues.
“For what reason?” I question, curious to hear what she has to offer this argument.
“He’s hot,” she whispers.
“Okay, Brielle, sweetie, if you want to move up in your career, you’ll need to figure out a way to focus your energy on career aspirations a bit more.”
“So I can fly up the chain like you did so quickly?” she counters.
“Touché.” She has a valid point, but still. “What real reason do you have?”
“He seems to keep saving your ass, so that should be reason enough.”
Logan must have gotten wind of our conversation and has no problem rolling back a few feet in his chair, bringing himself into view. “Did you mention me?”
The look of guilt frames Brielle’s perky face as I stare dumbfounded at Logan. “We were just discussing an expo we have to attend next week.”
“Oh, do you need an extra hand?” Can I just laugh out loud? He’s so innocent the way he asks, and my mind goes to the dirtiest place possible. What the hell is wrong with me?
“You know, a lot of
that equipment is heavy, and neither Brett or Alan are coming to this one.”
I lean forward, placing my elbows down on my desk, and rest my chin in my interlaced hands. “Yeah, I suppose it would be good to have an extra hand.” No. No extra hands, Hannah.
“No problem. Where is the event?” he asks.
“It’s in Orlando at The Contemporary,” Brielle says, clapping her hands together.
“The expo is at Disney?”
“We have a big market down there,” I tell him.
“Well, I’ll go book your flight and room,” Brielle tells Logan. “This will be a great way for all of us to get to know each other.” Because she hasn’t made things awkward enough, she feels the need to throw me a not-so-casual wink.
“Wait, Brielle?” I call out as she’s strutting out the door in her heels.
With a twist of her toes, she turns back to face me. “Yes?”
“You said you had the promotional material being delivered today. Wasn’t that supposed to be done in-house?”
“I meant the swag items,” she says. “Yes, you were supposed to design the promotional material for me to print.”
Shit. “Right, I’ll get that to you today.”
“What can I do?” Logan asks.
“Once I have the graphics ready, you can bring them up to the print room and collate.”
“I love being a temp,” he says with a cute smile. I kind of wish I was the temp right now. I’d rather mindlessly collate than focus on creating a promotion while imagining my temp naked.
* * *
It takes me way too long to create these damn things, and it’s just about lunchtime. Knowing I didn’t bring anything to eat at my desk today, I stand up and grab my coat. “I’ll have those graphics for you after lunch,” I tell Logan as I pass by his cube.
“Hey, wait up,” he says. “Where is there a good place to grab a bite around here?”
I stop and button up my coat. “There are a lot of cafes and fast food options in the center of town, about five minutes down the road.”
He stands up and grabs his peacoat, which looks like it was tailor-made for him. “Which one are you going to?”
Wow. That’s forward, but I’m not complaining. “I actually haven’t decided yet.”
“You don’t like making decisions, do you?” he criticizes.
“I hate making decisions, because I feel like that’s all I do,” I tell him, honestly. It is all I do. I mother. I finance. I taxi. I chef. I’m sick of making decisions.
“I’m in the mood for a sandwich,” he says. “Which is the best place to grab one?”
“Anthony’s or Perka’s,” I reply, noting that we’re now walking side by side out the door. I notice Brielle has already taken off for lunch, which isn’t a surprise. She runs out at noon each day to talk to her beau of the month and sits in her car, drinking her lunch smoothie.
“Will you show me where I can find Anthony’s?” he asks.
“On a map?” I ask, trying to be funny, which isn’t working for me.
“No, like in person,” he jests, elbowing me gently.
His friendly gestures hint at a lack of hierarchical attention. His demeanor is more on the lines of friendship, but maybe more. Except, I don’t understand why. What’s so exciting about me and my baggage full of drama that would cause someone to be so determined to have lunch with me? This is what a divorce does to a woman in her thirties. It kills every ounce of confidence a person could possibly have left, being so close to mid-life.
“I can do that,” I tell him, while wondering if it’s inappropriate to be having lunch with the temp. The men all have lunch together several days a week, and they’re at varying levels of stature in the company, so I suppose this is no different.
“I’ll drive,” he says, as we step into the elevator.
“I can drive too. You don’t have to do that,” I tell him.
Logan turns to me and tilts his head to the side as if I’m crazy. “Hannah, we’re both grown adults. We don’t have to play this game. I’m offering to drive because I want to, not because of any other reason. I know you’re my boss and I’m a temp, but we’re still people. Relax a bit.”
I never wonder why so many people tell me to breathe and relax. I wear stress on my face as if it were makeup. It’s hard not to.
I have no rebuttal to his perfectly stated explanation, so I wait the elevator ride out and follow him to the main doors. “Damn, snow. I was hoping we’d go all winter without a flake this year,” he says. “Once the seal is broken, it’s like there’s an endless sky-size bag of flour pouring out all over this state.”
I’m not sure we’d ever make it a whole winter without snow, but you’re right about breaking the seal. Though, I do love the first snowfall, but only the first snowfall. Cora gets so excited. I forgot what it felt like to be in the snow as a child until she reminded me. I wish Cora were feeling better so she could enjoy the snow. “Or, at least at the beginning when it’s white. I’m not a big fan of the brown and gray hues it takes on after a day or so.”
“Fair point.” We make it over to Logan’s truck. Now, seeing it up close, it looks new and expensive, which reminds me that he doesn’t financially need the temp position for our magazine. He’s filling his time.
I open the passenger side door and look up about three feet to where I’m supposed to climb in. You gotta be kidding me. “I’m right behind you,” Logan says. “I know. I’m an asshole.”
I’m speechless and the unexpected touch of his hands on my hips makes me screech as he lifts me up effortlessly like I weigh no more than a feather. I’m now ducking into the cab of his truck and taking a seat on a polished leather seat that smells like a combination of shampoo and cologne. I shouldn’t be in here. He shouldn’t have just lifted me into his truck. I’m his boss. Why doesn’t he care about this? Why do I have to care about this?
I can answer my question.
He doesn’t need this job.
I’d have to be the one to fire him.
Without giving Logan more than a second to settle into his seat, I twist toward him and sweep my hair behind my ear. “What’s your deal?” I ask him.
He doesn’t seem surprised by my question. In fact, he presses his key into the ignition and turns the truck on without so much as flinching. I’m wondering if he even heard me. “What do you think my deal is?”
I absolutely love when people turn questions around on me. If I wanted to offer up that information, I would have done so. Obviously, I don’t know the answer or I wouldn’t have asked. Thoughts keep surfacing, but I shove them back down to where they belong because everything I want to know is still considered inappropriate. “I think you’re just bored.” It doesn’t come out as nice as I meant it to sound.
“Bored, huh? Left or right?”
“Left.”
“Yeah, I think you’re bored,” I unashamedly repeat.
“Could be,” he responds.
“How could you not be?” I can play this game, although, I’m pretty sure I’ll still lose.
“I think you’re bored too,” he says. I hope we’re talking about the feeling of boredom and not my personality.
“Bored isn’t an adjective I can describe myself as,” I tell him. “More like overworked and exhausted.”
“Same here, I guess,” he says. His response boggles me. How could he possibly be overworked and tired?
“Right,” I quip with a short chuckle.
“I should turn right?” he asks, jerking the truck into the right lane.
“No, no, I was agreeing, or actually not agreeing with you. I was being sarcastic.”
“Ah, is that what that was?” He glances over at me and flashes a quick, half smile. At the same moment, I come to realize my slow beating heart has the capability of different speeds. Who would have thought?
“I don’t understand your decisions,” I tell him. If I had all the money in the world, I’d stay at home all day in my pajamas and watch
trash TV. It would be amazing.
“There are times when those who appear to have it all, feel as though they have nothing. I loved playing ball, don’t get me wrong, but there were many days when I told myself I’d kill to have a mindless desk job and know I wouldn’t wake up needing to down painkillers before sinking into a tub of ice cubes.”
I find myself enamored by his words and the way in which they casually slip off his tongue. I like that his past life and career aren’t this big secret. I’ve never considered the life of a person who uses their body to make a living, wearing it down to the point of pain every day. I can hardly handle an hour-long fitness class, never mind practicing baseball daily at this age. “I think I understand.”
“You think your life is challenging because you’re raising a daughter on your own while dealing with a broken heart.” He states this little fact, rather than asking or confirming. I can guess it’s thanks to my little outburst yesterday on the conference call.
“It’s challenging compared to other times of my life, yes.”
“Right or left?”
“Left, then take a U-turn, drive a mile, and pull off to the right. We missed the cafe.” I missed the cafe.
He shakes his head with another soft laugh. “Got it.”
“I wanted a child,” he says.
“Why didn’t you have one?”
“I did.”
That’s all it takes to make my heart stop thundering in my chest, followed by a heavy silence that drowns us within the truck. My gaze drops to my lap, focusing on my intertwined fingers and the redness blushing at my fingertips from squeezing so hard.
“I’m sorry,” is all that comes out of my mouth. I’m complaining about something he lost. I couldn’t make this worse if I tried. “I’m one of those people who have chronic foot-in-mouth disease.”
“Where did that saying even come from? Have you thought about it? It never fails. Whenever someone says that to me, I imagine them with their foot in their mouth.” The image of myself or Logan doing such a thing forces the rollercoaster of a conversation into a fit of laughter.
“Turn here,” I shout as I almost forget to tell him to turn again.
Man Flu Page 7
