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One
Frankie
Shit.
He’s here again. Cold rain slides down my neck as I stand outside my favorite coffee shop, debating if I should go inside or not. The freezing January air and the yawn that cracks my jaw are almost enough to overcome the clenching of my stomach at the sight of his dark-blond hair. His man bun only makes the tattoo on his neck stand out more, the scales of whatever fish or dragon it is disappearing beneath the black T-shirt of his uniform.
Even after all these months of knowing him, I don’t know what it’s a tattoo of, and he won’t tell me. I’m pretty sure he gets a kick out of denying me the information.
Before I can decide if I’m going inside or running away, Julian shifts in his seat. I dash down the street before he can see me, rain hitting my face, my foot splashing in a puddle. Wet socks on top of being an idiot? Great.
“Fuckity, fuck, fuck.” We live in Portland—there’s an artisan coffee shop on almost every corner. Why did I have to introduce him to the glory of Two Birds matcha lattes?
My frozen fingers fumble with the door of my second favorite coffee place as I pull it open. My gloves are somewhere in the back seat of my car, but since I was running late, I didn’t take the time to hunt for them before my quest for sustenance.
The barista is kind enough not to comment on my wet hair or the dark circles under my eyes while I order—although he raises an eyebrow at my quadruple espresso.
I hover near the bar, skimming through my phone while I wait for my muffin and drink. An eye-watering yawn escapes me just as someone calls my name. Stuffing my muffin in my bag, I swipe my coffee off the counter and brace myself for another day at work.
Lauren and her gang keep telling me how much better everything is at Mailbox, Inc. now that Mr. Sutton and Sophie are together, but I don’t see it. Sure, Mr. Sutton is much less grumpy these days, but I only ever saw him occasionally. Derek Novak is the reason I dread going to work.
Halfway to the office, I’ve had enough sips of coffee to face the day. Reaching into my bag, I tear the muffin in half to save the top for last. Juggling the paper cup in my left hand, I attempt to tear the paper wrapper off the bottom. I’m still struggling to get it off when I get to the front doors of Mailbox.
I pause at the doors and use my teeth to grip the edge of the paper wrapper, pulling it away from the apple streusel muffin my stomach is calling for. My puffy jacket hinders the movement, and instead of getting a good grip on the wrapper, I only bite off the edge. “Ugh, gross.” I turn my head to the side and spit the bit of paper out of my mouth. Directly onto a polished shoe.
“Good morning to you too, Frankie.” Julian’s rumble is laced with amusement, but it doesn’t stop me from flinching back from his large presence. Shit, shit, fuck.
“Oh God. I’m so sorry.” My apology merely pulls a smile from the herculean man. My cheeks are hot enough to evaporate the misty rain in the air. Of all the people to accidentally spit on, it had to be the sex-on-a-stick head of security at Mailbox—otherwise known as my friend Julian, who will now give me shit about it for at least a week.
“Need a hand?” Julian reaches past me to swipe his keycard on the scanner, pulling open the door once it unlocks. Bracing it open with his arm over my head while I step inside, Julian follows. “You’re here early.”
“Just trying to get a head start on a new project.” I smile to distract him from asking any more questions. Julian doesn’t need to know I’m here early so I can disappear into my office before Derek shows up. I raise my paper cup in salute. “Early bird and all that.”
The ticking of the giant clock on the wall echoes through the empty lobby. Rex, the evening guard, must be doing his final rounds before Julian takes over.
I scurry toward the elevator door, still juggling the muffin and my coffee. Julian intercepts me before I can push the call button, reaching it in a few long strides. He calls the elevator but doesn’t move away, towering over me while I wait for the doors to open. Of course, looming over me doesn’t take much effort, even most women are taller than me.
“I missed you at Two Birds this morning.” He wiggles the coffee cup in his hand, the distinctive logo of my favorite coffee shop—a pair of birds kissing—printed on the side. The movement catches my eye, and I can’t help staring at the art peeking out beneath his long sleeve. I’ve always wondered if it’s a continuation of the design that peeks out from under his collar, or if it’s something else entirely.
“I love their coffee,” I blurt out without thinking.
“I know you do.” He eyes me. “You have some particular reason you went to Roasters instead?” He indicates the cup in my hand. “Two Birds is closer to the office.”
I scramble for a reason why I ran away to Roasters. I can’t tell him the truth—that I didn’t go inside Two Birds because he was there. Because I haven’t been able to look him in the eye for weeks. “Um…Roasters…um…” I’m saved by the ding of the elevator doors opening. “Muffin!” I half shout as I dash inside.
I turn in time to see the elevator doors closing on the very confused face of Julian Lockwood.
I use the elevator ride up to the ninth floor to calm my racing heart, inhaling slowly through my nose and out through my mouth, just like my therapist made me practice. It doesn’t do much other than give my mind something else to fixate on instead of thinking about what an idiot I just made of myself, but maybe that’s the point. By the time the doors open, I only want to hide in my office, rather than throw myself off the top of the building. I give myself a mental pat on the back and tiptoe through the quiet space to my desk.
By the time other people show up at eight thirty, I’m buried deep in the code of our newest product, searching for bugs, and my coffee is long gone. I tune out the sounds of arrival, the greetings and discussion of people’s weekends until there’s a sharp rap on my door.
“Happy Monday, Frankie.” Derek’s smile is all charm and good humor, for now. “Did you have a good weekend?”
His wide shoulders take up most of the doorway, preventing my escape. He has the build of a former athlete, not quite bulky, but not lean. Thick dark hair, always perfectly mussed, dark eyes and a square jaw complete the trifecta of genetic blessing that I assume is the foundation for his indomitable male ego. If only there was anything appealing about his personality to go with it.
My stomach twists with unease, my quadruple espresso sitting heavy. Even though it happens almost daily, my heart ramps up to a wild flutter as I’m trapped in my office. But instead of bolting or hiding, I dig my nails into the palm of my hand and give him the best smile I can muster.
“It was pretty low key—just did some laundry and hung out with friends.”
