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Normally, I’d pass. But my other option was sobbing into a box of chocolate on the stairway of my previous workplace, and I was eager to cap my embarrassment quota for the decade.
“What’s my full name?” I quipped.
“Daphne Helen Marie Markham.”
“Okay. That’s on my gym membership on the fridge. Favorite biscuits?”
“Digestives.”
That was easy, though. They were the only kind I kept in the flat.
“Wardrobe quirk?” I wanted to see if he noticed I color coordinated my dresses with my purses.
“You never wear underwear.” He grinned winningly. “Which I approve of, by the way.”
“Oi, of course I do!” I slapped his thigh.Ouch.Was he made out of iron?
“Then how come they’re never in the washing machine?”
“I wash them by hand. They’re delicate.” I fisted a couple of truffles, then shoved them into my mouth and chewed.
“Just like you,” he said sarcastically. “By the way, your teeth are brown from the chocolate.”
I opened my mouth, spitting the half-chewed truffle back into the box, horrified.
His jaw pulsed. “You’re doing this again.”
“Doing what?”
“Caring what people think.”
“Would you please just stop?”
“Stop what?”
“Stop being funny and charming.”
“So you find me funny and charming?” That sultry zing in his eyes was back.
“You’retryingto be,” I amended, glad I’d run out of chocolate. A wave of queasiness washed through me. “It’s not working. I know your game.”
Riggs leaned on his elbows, smirking. “I have a game now, do I? Please fill me in as to what it is.”
He was grating on my nerves, but at least we weren’t talking about my public meltdown upstairs. I hoped I wasn’t becoming a viral meme this very minute.
British Karen lashes out at boss with a period stain on her bum.
This made Elvis’s dying on his toilet seat look like a graceful departure.
“You love female attention. You don’t care how or where you get it, or who you destroy in the process.” I crossed my arms.
People sidestepped us on the stairs. It was time to evacuate. I rose up and dusted off my dress, too preoccupied to care that I was sporting aperiodstain. I wasn’t even supposed to get my period until next week. BJ must’ve thrown me out of cycle with his traumatic news. I made my way to the subway, with Riggs tailing me.
“And what evidence do you have to support this claim?” he probed as I slam-dunked the empty Godiva box into a bin.
“You’re having an affair with a married woman.” I suppressed a burp. “You’re ruining a family.”
“Don’t tell me you grew sympathy for Gretchen Beatty in the last ten minutes.” He put a hand to his heart.
