Between his perfect bone structure and the dimples folding his cheeks, Kit was perhaps the most handsome man Chance had ever seen. He looked young too, with thick brown hair and big, boyish eyes. He could usually be seen walking with groups of older men in similar expensive suits, all of whom called Chance things like champ and skipper instead of bothering to learn his name.
But today, Kit was alone. He caught Chance’s eyes and flashed a brilliant smile. “Morning, Chance. And Marci. How’s your day going?”
“Fine, thanks.” Marci smiled back. “Girls, say hi to Kit.”
Shana hid her face behind a coloring book and giggled, but Ranelle gurgled a cheerful greeting.
Kit paused to smile over the cubicle walls. “Good morning to you too, girls. You get more grown-up every time I blink.” With that, he strode around the corner and disappeared into the lobby. Probably to take the stairs up to see his boss on the top floor, where the “important people” offices were located. Kit always took the stairs. Chance was willing to bet he had a hell of a body under that suit.
“You have a little drool on the corner of your mouth, Chance.”
He snapped out of his reverie and wiped his face. His hand came away dry. “I do not.”
“It’s metaphorical drool, dear.” Marci hummed, sounding amused. “Will you admit you have the hots for him already?”
“For Kit? No, I—”
“Spare me. It’s nothing to be ashamed of. I only have eyes for my wife, but even I wouldn’t mind breaking off a piece of that.”
“I’m telling Nadia,” Chance teased. He glanced at his desk phone. Another line had lit up. “I have a call, so I’ll just . . .”
He started to pivot back around, but Marci caught his chair. “Not so fast, mister. Why won’t you admit you have a thing for Kit? You two would make a great couple. Isn’t that right, girls? Wouldn’t you like to see Uncle Chance settle down with a nice boy?”
Ranelle was now snoozing in her carrier, but Shana nodded eagerly before she went back to coloring.
Chance’s face grew hot; he was willing to bet he was as red as one of Shana’s crayons. “I neither confirm nor deny. I know you’d love to play matchmaker, but I can secure my own dates.”
“Oh really? Is that why you haven’t been on one in—” she tapped her chin “—I believe you’re going on eight months now?”
“Am not!” He frowned. “Six months.”
“All the more reason to ask Kit out.”
“I don’t know anything about him, okay? I don’t even know if he’s into guys. He seems nice enough, but he’s also one of those type A suit people. The very ones you were complaining about a second ago.”
“He doesn’t act like the rest of them, though. He bothered to learn our names, for one thing, and he’s sweet to my girls, which is a big plus in my book. Besides, how can you say you don’t know him? I saw you two talking at the office party last quarter.”
She had him there. Kit had caught sight of the lightsaber pen in Chance’s pocket and had struck up a conversation about the latest film in the franchise. He’d shocked Chance when he’d started talking about the ways in which the films veered away from the expanded universe. It’d given Chance the biggest nerd boner of his life.
For a moment, it’d seemed like maybe there was something between them. A spark. A connection. Chance had felt it that night more strongly than ever before, but nothing had come of it. As days melted into weeks, and he and Kit only ever exchanged pleasantries in the hall or elevator, he’d convinced himself he’d imagined it.
“One conversation does not a relationship make,” he ended up saying. “Kit could be exactly like all those older business execs he works with. Conservative. Married. To a woman. Imagine the talk around the watercooler if I hit on Kit, and he went into some kind of gay panic.”
“People wouldn’t talk about that. They’re all too PR-conscientious.”
“They would after I died on the spot from embarrassment. Now if you’ll excuse me.” He reached for his phone only to realize the line had stopped blinking. Damn. How long ago had that happened?
Marci was undeterred. “Oh, come on. I see how you two look at each other. There’s something there, and you know it. Only you’re too scared to do anything about it. You should learn to take some risks, Chance, or you’re going to miss out.”
“Thanks for the advice, Mom.” The line started blinking again. “I have to take this. Clients don’t like to be kept waiting.”
As he reached for the phone, Marci spun his chair bit by bit, keeping the phone out of reach until he was facing away from his desk. “Marci, cut it out. Please?”
She sighed and released his chair. “Fine. But it wouldn’t kill you to get out more. San Francisco is a big city, and full of possibilities. Don’t you want to meet someone? Revel in the joys of young romance? You’re the one who’s always saying how much you love kids and want to have a whole fleet of them yourself.”
“Sure, but years from now. I’m twenty-three. I still eat dinosaur chicken nuggets for dinner and watch cartoons.”
“Doesn’t mean you can’t live a little. I worry about you. You spend all day in this office with people twice your age, who only ever talk about their mortgages and the rising cost of stamps. Myself included. You need to get out more. Meet new people. Or before you know it, life will have flashed by, and your memories will be nothing but work and sleep.”
It was true that the office didn’t afford Chance many opportunities to be social. The twelve-story Meyers building was rented by over a dozen different companies, and whenever one moved out, a new one crammed itself in. There was little point in getting to know anyone he didn’t work with, because they could be gone within a year.
Chance was friendly to everyone he met, but it never went beyond the superficial. The weather. Local sports teams. How much coffee was too much. Though he had to admit, if there was anyone he’d like to get to know better, it was Kit. He was charming and sweet, and his smile made Chance dizzy. If he ever settled down . . . When he settled down, he hoped it’d be with someone like Kit.
Realizing he’d been quiet for a beat too long, Chance cleared his throat. “Why would I need to make more friends? I have you.” He spun his chair back around toward his desk, already reaching for the phone. Another call had popped up like clockwork. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.”
“Yeah, yeah.” Marci glared at her own blinking phone lines. “Don’t we all.”
Chance laughed, took a breath to regain his composure, and picked up the phone. “Good morning. This is Chance from IT. How may I help you?”
10:48 a.m., Monday, August 13th
Kit stared out his office window and sighed to himself. It was a beautiful day. Sunny skies and fluffy clouds as far as the eye could see. Sure, the occasional skyscraper bisected the view like scissors slicing through blue fabric, but this was San Francisco. What could he expect?
What I wouldn’t give to be at the beach right now. Digging my toes into the sand. Breathing in the salt air. Sitting under an umbrella with a good book.
But no. He had work to do. A never-ending supply of it. There were campaign proposals to finish, and clients to touch base with, and budget reports to pore over. It was his job to make sure money was going where it was needed. If it were left up to Mr. Halford, they’d blow their whole budget on ads and spend none of it on incentives for their employees. As the PR reps were always telling Kit, turnover was the most expensive part of running a company.
It wasn’t even his company to run, and yet he spent half his day worrying about it. Hell, some nights he composed emails in his sleep. What he wouldn’t give to be able to mentally clock out like everyone else did when the end of the day rolled around.
With one last wistful glance out the window, he turned back to the report pulled up on his computer and started typing. His desk was a study in minimalism: a stapler lined up parallel to a tape dispenser, a Bluetooth speaker that played classical
music when his boss was around and eighties pop when he wasn’t, and his one indulgence—a photo of his mom and three little sisters, all of whom had his same honey-brown hair and eyes.
Well, it was his one indulgence besides the trio of succulents he’d grown himself from cuttings. He told the guys in the sales department that keeping plants generated oxygen and therefore boosted productivity, but in truth, he needed a splash of green to liven up the cinderblock walls and oatmeal-colored tile.
One of the lines on his desk phone lit up, and from the speaker came the bombastic voice of Mr. Halford. “Gibbons.”
“Yes.” Kit didn’t stop typing. If he could get this revision request in by a quarter to noon, there was a chance the people in the graphics department might see it before lunch. That would buy him—and by proxy, the company—two whole hours of productivity.
Mr. Halford sounded irritable, a sure sign that he needed something. “Do you have that expense report I asked for three days ago?”
Kit frowned, even though no one could see him. “For the DiMarco account?”
“Yes. If you forgot to do it, then—”
“Sir, I already gave it to you. Three days ago, in fact.”
There was a pause.
“You’re sure?”
“I put a hard copy on your desk, and I emailed one to you.”
“Huh.” There came the sound of rustling papers.
Kit knew quite well what would come next, but he let the drama unfold without interruption, as he always did.
“I, uh, couldn’t find the hard copy.” There was a shifting noise. No doubt Mr. Halford had tossed it into the trash. “And my email must be glitching again, because it’s not there. Resend it. Then call the IT department and have someone check my email. It must not be, uh, receiving correctly.”
“Absolutely, sir. Right away.” That’s totally how email works.
“And this coffee you brought me tastes like decaf. Brew a fresh pot, and make sure it’s regular.”
“Sure thing, sir.” Kit hung up before his boss could tack anything else on to his demands. There were days when Kit regretted taking this job. Usually the days when he was expected to be a secretary, a computer expert, an accountant, and a barista all at once, on top of his actual duties as the account manager. But he needed the experience, and it was only temporary.
Just three more months. Three months, and I’ll be up for a promotion.
Every day, Kit put himself through the grind. He did the jobs no one else wanted to do, let his boss lie to his face, and talked numbers with the guys while drinking beer he’d have to work off at the gym later. All so he’d have a shot at a senior position.
Why? Because he wanted to be successful, damn it. Because he had three teenaged sisters, and Mom had been struggling to support them ever since Dad had died. Because he’d had to bust his ass and work two jobs to put himself through college, and if he had any say in the matter, his sisters weren’t going to have to do the same.
And hey, if Kit got to be Mr. Halford’s boss one day, he wouldn’t say no to that. He wasn’t a saint, after all.
On top of all the other perks, once Kit was promoted, he’d get to transfer to the central office downtown, which was sleek and modern and allegedly had a squash court. He didn’t even play squash, but he might if he had access to a court. Plus, most of the people there were young professionals, like him. Kit could have actual peers, instead of kissing ass and pretending to be something he wasn’t.
Though he had to admit, there was one person he’d miss if he transferred. Chance Crawford, the cutie who worked down the hall. Kit had been attracted to him the moment he’d first walked past his cubicle. Chance was precisely his type—dark-haired, light-eyed, and short enough that he’d have to stand on tiptoe to kiss Kit. Not that the majority of Kit’s daydreams consisted of kissing Chance or anything.
The attraction went deeper than the physical too. They’d only spoken a handful of times, but that’d been enough to convince Kit there was something there. Something real. Chance made him laugh, made him think, and most of all, he made Kit wish he hadn’t cultivated this whole fake work persona.
A hundred times, when they’d happened to share an elevator ride at the end of the day, Kit’s lips had tingled with the desire to ask Chance out. He could frame it like an innocent hang-out session between colleagues: I had a long day and was thinking of grabbing a drink. Wanna come?
But Kit never asked. How could he, when Chance knew him as this whole other person? A person Kit didn’t like very much, at that.
The elevator doors would open, Chance would wish him a good rest of his day, and Kit would watch him walk away, the invitation dying on his tongue.
“Coward,” he muttered to himself as he finished typing the revision request and sent it off to the graphic designers. He paused to scrub a hand down his face before he pulled up his inbox and resent the DiMarco expense report to his boss. Just to be petty, he attached his previous email as well, so Mr. Halford would see that Kit had, in fact, sent it in the first damn place.
Don’t take your frustration with yourself out on your boss. No matter how much the jerk might have it coming.
At the new office, Kit wouldn’t have to do this anymore. He wouldn’t have to talk numbers all day and pretend he was a swaggering, suit-wearing master of the universe. The whole atmosphere here was so macho and performative. He couldn’t wait to be rid of it. As soon as that promotion was his, he could drop the act and start over.
But then, the new office wouldn’t have Chance. When he transferred, Kit would lose his excuse to see Chance every day. If he wanted to make something happen, he was running out of time.
His eyes drifted over to the photo of his sisters. He’d seen them this past Friday for a family dinner, and the whole time, they’d bugged him about his love life. He could still hear Brittany, the oldest, saying he worked too hard and needed to get out more.
She wasn’t wrong, though that hadn’t kept him from being a good big brother and telling her to shut it.
Kit didn’t date much. Most people who knew him personally found that hard to believe—he was always talking about having a house and a husband and a couple of kids one day—but between work and his sisters and his handful of hobbies, he didn’t have the time. There was also the added complication that he wasn’t out in his professional life, and he’d rather keep it that way. If the guys gave him shit for having plants on his desk, he could only imagine how they’d react to him being gay.
So naturally, Kit was sweet on a guy he worked with, whom he couldn’t date without everyone eventually finding out about it. Only Kit could take something as simple as an office romance and make it one giant, jumbled mess.
You still have three months, said a quiet voice in his head. Don’t give up hope yet. If there’s really something between you and Chance, it’ll work out. Maybe something will happen, and you’ll find the courage to ask him out.
Yeah, right. Sometimes Kit felt like it would take an earthquake to get him to budge. If only he were braver. He’d tell the guys to fuck off and ask Chance out on the spot.
But he wasn’t, and thanks to that, he might miss his shot.
Sighing, he picked up his phone to call IT like Mr. Halford had asked, but then he rolled his eyes at himself. There was no sense in wasting anyone’s time on an imaginary problem, and Mr. Halford had probably forgotten all about it by now.
And you don’t want to risk getting connected to Chance, coward.
Kit slammed a mental door shut on that line of thought. For the next half an hour, he busied himself answering emails. When he’d finished, he glanced at the watch on his wrist: 11:24 a.m. Perfect. He ordered lunch from the same place almost every Monday. One of those trendy, all-organic places that thrived in California.
He wasn’t as health-conscious as most people assumed based on his gym habits, but he needed protein in the afternoon to balance out the coffee and stress. He had to keep his energy up if he was going
to avoid telling his boss where he could stuff all the emails he conveniently didn’t see.
Kit picked up his desk phone and dialed the number for the sales team’s office.
A gruff voice answered. “Yeah?”
“McNeely. It’s Gibbons. I’m ordering lunch. Ask the boys if they want anything.”
There was some muffled talking, and then another voice came over the line. “Are you ordering rabbit food again?”
Kit smiled to himself. “You know it.”
A chorus of groans sounded in the background, and then McNeely said, “Learn how to eat a damn cheeseburger, man.”
“Sorry, buddy. I had a bunch of wings while watching the game, and now I gotta balance it out.” That was a complete lie. Kit knew nothing about sports—hence, he hadn’t specified which game he’d allegedly watched—but it earned him an affirming grunt.
“You go ahead. Pretty sure the boys would rather go outside and eat twigs off the trees.”
“Suit yourselves.”
He set the receiver back in the cradle and then pulled his personal phone out of his jacket pocket. When he hit the Home button, the background flashed to life: a photo of a ginger cat with amber eyes. His baby, Snap. Thank God none of the guys had ever asked to borrow his phone. He’d have a hell of a time trying to come up with a good cover story for that.
After calling the restaurant and placing an order for delivery, he scrolled through his apps, trying to decide what he was in the mood for today. He’d downloaded a number of strategy and word games, like Scrabble and Sudoku. If he were smart, he’d eat lunch in the communal kitchen and get to know more people in the building. Maybe even run into a certain someone and strike up a conversation.
But without fail, come lunchtime, he would lock himself in his office and do crossword puzzles. He’d acted much the same when he was a shy, skinny high schooler, and he’d eaten lunch in the band room by himself.
On Solid Ground Page 2
