by Sara Ney
Dip it in the soup, sopping up the tomato base, then go at it again.
Dip. Chomp. Dip. Chomp.
“You really are a caveman,” Spencer says, reading my mind.
A caveman who didn’t have to go scavenging for food. All I have to do is smile at her and she’s bringing me shit. Not a bad day on the job.
I immediately feel guilty.
“I said thank you,” I remind her, although I didn’t actually say thank you. “Thanks.”
We settle into a companionable silence after that, her clicking away with her mouse as she moves it around the pad, me scarfing down lunch and checking emails on my phone.
A snack appears on my desk when I return from taking a piss around four o’clock, and I feel like sharing this office won’t be the worst thing that’s happened to me all year. It’s a giant chocolate chip cookie and plain granola, and I doubt it’s from the breakroom.
Satisfied from lunch, the treats, and the contracts we’ve been awarded for the project I’ve been bidding, I text Humphrey’s dog walker to see if she can pop in and play with him and take him potty. Since I didn’t make it to the office until later, looks like I’m going to stay a bit later, at least until I meet the Bastards for a drink. No sense in racing home, letting the dog out, then racing back to this part of town if it can be avoided.
The dog walker is available. She usually is since that’s her main gig and she’s always up for the extra cash, and let me tell you—it isn’t cheap having someone else come take Humphrey for a walk.
But he likes her, and it eases my burden so I can push through at work and get shit done.
Anyway.
Back to the snacks on my desk.
The plastic baggie of granola is big and hearty, so I suspect it isn’t store-bought. But I could be wrong. “Did you make this?” I hold up an almond and inspect it with one eye squinted shut. It looks baked and smells delicious.
I pop it in my mouth and chew.
“Yeah, I made a batch this past weekend.” Spencer is still working, one earbud in, the other dangling down her chest so she can hear me.
“You made this?”
Now she turns to face me. “You sound surprised.”
“I am.” I scoop a handful into my gullet and savor the cinnamon and sugar she has sprinkled on it, the raisins. “It’s so good.” Better than the sandwich she fed me for lunch. “If you keep feeding me, you’re gonna have to drag me out of here kicking and screaming,” I warn with a grin.
From here, it looks like Spencer is blushing—but I could be wrong. The sun is beaming in from behind her and the glare is blinding. “Aw, I’m sure your girlfriend would hate it if she heard you refusing to leave.”
Whoa.
Hold up.
Is she fishing for information? Is that her not-so-subtle way of asking if I have a girlfriend? Better bring the hammer down so she lowers her expectations.
“I don’t have a girlfriend, and I’m not looking for one.”
There. Too harsh, but also the truth.
“I wasn’t asking,” she lies prettily, avoiding my gaze to stare at her computer monitor. “I assumed you had one, so… Whatever.”
More food goes into my mouth. “Why would you assume I’m in a relationship?”
Spencer stops what she’s doing long enough to shrug, give me a glance, and bite down on her lower lip. “You look like the type.”
I look like the type?
Literally not a single person has ever said that about me—at least not to my face—and I doubt anyone ever will. Spencer Standish is full of shit and we both know it. I do not, in fact, look like the relationship type, and she was indeed fishing for information about me.
She knows I’m the consummate bachelor.
I know it.
I’m such a confirmed bachelor I have a blue velvet smoking jacket, for fuck’s sake. How douchey is that? A jacket I’m seriously considering having my initials embroidered on just to drive home my single status on the nights my friends and I wear them in public.
My fingers flex, itching to feel that fabric.
The jacket is with me at work.
Yeah. I brought it. Stuffed it into my laptop bag, folded into a neat little square, probably getting horribly wrinkled.
Shit. I should probably take it out of my bag so it’s not a mess by the time I need to wear it later tonight. It won’t do to be the only asshole at the meeting with a wrinkly jacket.
It would only make me look like an even bigger douche than I’ll already be.
Swallowing the granola in my mouth, I lean over and unzip my laptop bag, fingering the smooth, velvety square tucked inside. Grasp it and pull, giving it a little shake when it’s loose from the bag. Twist my body to hang it on the back of my desk chair, out of Spencer’s sight.
“What’s that?”
Too fucking late. “Don’t you have work to do?”
Why is she constantly watching me? Nosey little shit.
“I am working, but your desk is so close you’re constantly up my asshole. Forgive me for noticing when you take something out of your purse.”
Up her asshole? My purse?
What the…
Who talks like that? Spencer, apparently—that’s who.
Jeez, this girl is certifiable.
Not in an insane way, just—a pain-in-my-ass kind of way. Her saucy mouth is weirdly turning me on, and I hate it.
Fuck.
“How about you mind your own business for once?”
“Um, hello—need I remind you that this is my office?”
“Um, hello,” I repeat. “You’re incessantly reminding me that this is your office. And trust me, as soon as I get the green light, I’m so out of here.” I root around in the bag for more granola, stuff it in my mouth.
“You literally just got done saying they’d have to drag you out of here kicking and screaming!”
“I lied,” I lie.
“It’s not stopping you from enjoying the perks, though, is it? Freeloader.”
“Excuse me?” I ask through a full mouth of warm cookie.
A crumb chooses that moment to fall on my shirt, traitorous little bastard.
“If I’m so terrible, maybe you shouldn’t eat the lunch I bring you. And keep your mitts off my snacks.” She arches a brow and extends her hand in my direction across her desk. “Give that back.”
I shake my head, holding the baggie and the cookie to my chest. “No.”
“I said, give it back!”
“It’s mine. You gave it to me.”
“I gave it to you as a gesture of goodwill, and you don’t even appreciate it!”
So? I’m a guy—of course I appreciate her gesture, but I’m not going to get all gushy over it. I’m not a chick. I’ll only gush over amazing sex, and maybe a trip I don’t have to organize myself. Those are the only things that warrant a good slobbery gush-fest, and both almost never happen.
I shove more into my face, the granola falling down the front of my shirt the way Spencer’s chips did yesterday. “If you want this back, you’re going to have to come over here and physically remove it from my dead, lifeless hands.”
“That can be arranged.” Her pretty eyes narrow into dangerous slits—dangerous, sexy slits, I might add. Spencer Standish is hot when she’s being cunning.
I ignore her.
I ignore her when she prattles on, and I ignore her when she goes stealthily quiet.
A move that costs me when she rises from her seat—I’m shoving granola into my esophagus and barely paying her any attention at this point—and her hand yanks at the jacket hanging on the back of my chair.
“Fuck!” I spit out everything I was gnawing on. “Give that back!”
“Come and get it,” she taunts, but not before eyeing up the garment. Runs her fingers along the expensive stitching, the delicate trim, the silk lining inside. “What the hell is this?”
“None of your business,” I tell her for the second time today. “Nonyo. Bi
znass.”
“But now I’m invested.” She holds it up and out of my reach as I lurch forward, attempting to snatch it back.
“You can have the granola.” I take the bag and toss it onto her desk.
“Mm, don’t want it anymore.” She’s plainly curious about the jacket. Even sniffs it. “Do you wear this? Like, this fits you?” Her eyes scan me up and down. “It doesn’t match your outfit.”
Excuse me? “Yes it does.” Not that it matters, but the jacket matching my outfit hardly matters. It’s the jacket itself that matters if I want to attend a meeting of the Bastard Bachelor Society. Kind of a thing we’re all sticklers about.
No jacket, no drink.
And most of the reason we meet is to bitch and complain about our day.
The jacket is a symbol of our brotherhood, our friendship. Sometimes we smoke cigars, sometimes we just talk, always at The Basement.
“Who wears velvet anymore?”
“Lots of people.”
The famous tilt of her chin. “Name some.”
I can’t name a single one, unless you count my mom during the holidays. Vicky McGuire loves her some black velvet skirts during Christmas. And Prince. He definitely liked velvet.
I do not mention my mother; Spencer would make fun of me. Nor do I mention Prince, because it would be ludicrous to compare myself to a pop star.
Instead, I cross my arms and roll my eyes. “Give me the jacket.”
“Can I try it on?”
“No!” I shout, a little too loudly. She should know better than to even ask; I’m trying to get the damn thing out of her grasp—why would I allow her to try it on?
“Rawr, someone is getting testy over a dumb jacket.”
“It’s not a dumb jacket,” I grumble, a sound I’ve made at least half a dozen times since moving my shit into Spencer’s office. Funny how I’m never this bitchy on the south side. Maybe it’s the lack of testosterone in here.
Maybe I need to pack up my shit and go.
I look up into Spencer’s puppy dog eyes and pouty bottom lip.
Sigh.
I mean—what’s the worst thing that could happen if I let her try on the jacket? It’s not like anyone would find out about it…
“Fine.”
“Fine? Fine as in yes I can try it on?”
I sigh again. Louder this time, for dramatic effect. “Yes—but do it fast, and don’t linger, and take it off immediately.”
I’m already regretting this. Such a bad idea.
“You are so weird, Phillip McGuire.”
Lately, yeah.
I watch as Spencer shrugs her narrow shoulders into my navy jacket. It’s large on her, but the color is flattering and—what the hell am I talking about? Flattering? Jesus.
She pulls the lapels closed and purses her lips, posing. Fluffs her hair and makes a show of twirling in circles. “I could wear this as a dress, belted off with cute heels,” she tells me. The last thing I want to picture is her prancing around in nothing but my jacket with bare legs and stilettos.
“Time to take it off,” I chastise like a fuddy-duddy, giving her the ‘gimme’ motion with my hand. “Give it up, Standish.”
“Aww,” she croons, shrugging it off as easily as she pulled it on. “You know my last name.”
I shake my head. “Don’t flatter yourself—it’s on your desk.” And it is, on a nameplate she has sitting front and center, brown wood grain with gold etched letters. The kind of sign you have made yourself when you’ve been promoted and have your very own office, when you want to feel important.
I should know—I have one just like it on my desk. I had it made at the mall, at a kiosk, when I was promoted and got moved from a cubicle to my very own office.
Spencer Standish.
Has a nice ring to it.
She hands my jacket back, leaning across our monolith of a desk, our hands brushing when I grasp the velvet. I don’t intend to, but I tingle.
Fuck if I don’t…
8
Spencer
“What’s he doing with a blue velvet smoking jacket?” Miranda wants to know, staring at me through the lens on her phone, one hand gripping a train rail, the loud sounds of the engine and people surrounding her almost drowning her out.
Her phone rocks and shakes as she stands in the L train at the end of the day, our afternoon ritual of FaceTiming uninterrupted despite her being on the go.
“I have no idea.” I’m already home, and I prop my feet up on the coffee table, already in slippers, already in pajamas, already forking a giant bowl full of buttered rice.
I’m too lazy to cook anything healthy, too cheap to order takeout or delivery.
“How are you going to find out?” Miranda is yelling, and I cannot imagine what the other passengers are thinking. Probably want to kill her, or muzzle her. Or both. Nothing is more annoying than someone on their phone in public, worse when they’re video-chatting with someone.
Ugh.
So glad I don’t have to put up with it. I would want to smack her.
“You could just ask,” my best friend suggests.
“As if he’d tell me what it’s for? Please. You should have seen him when I asked if I could put it on.” I laugh. “Better yet, you should have seen the fool’s face when I snatched it from him.”
Gotta be quick, gotta be quick if you’re going to get it back from me…
“Men,” Miranda says, and I imagine she’s chuckling, because that’s what Miranda does: finds humor in everything.
“He should have known I was going to try to steal it. What an amateur.” I laugh again. “It did smell good, though.”
“Which means he probably hasn’t washed it from the last time he wore it.”
I hadn’t thought of that. “I mean—it seems like it’s for special occasions? Velvet? I doubt he ran a marathon in it, ’cause it didn’t stink—it’s not like his gym clothes, stop judging.”
It smelled like aftershave and man and handsomeness. Mmm mmm mmm.
“What are you eating?” my friend wants to know, nosey as ever, even on a train.
I hold up my bowl so she can inspect it.
“Rice? That’s it?”
“I’m lazy,” I tell her, as if it weren’t obvious.
“You should meet me out for dinner.”
“I’m already in my pajamas,” I remind her, turning the camera so she can see my fuzzy pink pants and gray fuzzy slippers that look like mice, complete with cute little ears, pink noses, and whiskers.
“You have makeup on, and you can eat the bar olives from my martini,” she allows. “You love doing that.”
It’s true; I do love eating the olives when Miranda gets drinks. For some reason, they taste better when they’re not from your cocktail.
“I could I guess. Throw on jeans and a sweater…”
“That’s the spirit,” my best friend whoops, and over her shoulder, I see a few people roll their eyes. “Where should we go? Let’s find a new spot—I’m tired of the downtown scene.”
Fine with me. I’m in no mood for doing the after-work, happy hour grind with the other pathetic singles in the metro area. I’m over it. “Where can we go where it’s kind of quiet but we can get a decent sandwich and a good cocktail?”
We think on it.
I watch as Miranda leans over to strike up a conversation with some hot guy reading a novel, but I can’t hear what she asks him or what he’s saying in response.
“This guy said there’s a place called The Basement that’s low-key but real nice. It’s on my end of town.”
“Yeah, that’s fine—I’ll just hop in a cab.”
“I’m almost to my stop—don’t really want to go home and change,” she tells me, hoisting her shoulder bag to redistribute the weight. “Forty-five minutes?”
“At The Basement?”
“Yup.”
“Cool, cool. See you then.”
9
Phillip
“How’s married li
fe?” Our friend Blaine is the first person to speak when we’re all sitting down, at the spot in The Basement we’ve established as our own. During the week, it’s a crapshoot whether our special seats will be available, and tonight, we’re in luck, because all three of them are.
Plus, the bartender who occasionally gives us free appetizers is here.
Score.
“Yeah, tell us how Abbott is,” I add before Brooks can get defensive about his relationship status. He and his girlfriend are shacking up together, so it’s pretty serious, although he likes to occasionally pretend otherwise.
Tonight is no such occasion. “Fucking great,” he says with a wink and a nod, his toothy grin saying what his mouth isn’t. He’s happy and content, in it for the long haul.
I mean, think about it—the guy gave up a lot to be with his girlfriend. Oh, he fought it pretty damn hard, lying to us about all the time they were spending together and the fact that they’d fallen in love, but eventually, he couldn’t stand the secrets and the truth came spilling out.
“Don’t get me wrong, sometimes it’s a huge pain in the ass living with her, but that’s only because I’ve never done it before, and I still don’t trust the cat.”
His girlfriend has an evil cat named Desdemona that used to hiss and take swipes at him.
The Pussy of Terror, he called it.
Brooks adjusts the cuffs on his blue smoking jacket—a jacket he had to give back to us when he broke the club rules, fell in love, let his neighbor-girl-turned-girlfriend wear his club coat, and told her about the Bastard Bachelor Society.
Blaine and I decided to let him wear it. Because we’re cool like that. Plus, he whined about it like a baby.
I sit idly, not mentioning the fact I let Spencer in my office try mine on today. The thought makes me feel ill. And guilty.
I take a swig of my drink and avert my eyes.
Clear my throat. “How’s work?”
Our friend is an architect totally killing it at his new job with a promotion and new office.
“Can’t complain. Long hours, lots of stress.” He takes a drink from his glass, too, then chases it with a handful of almonds. “It’s nice having someone to come home to, and I’m not talking about Desi.”
