“In your pocket. Or maybe the drawer you’ve just taken it out of.”
“Why, when clearly wrists were made for such things?”
“If you say so.” She gives a miniature shrug and pivots away.
Meanwhile, I wince at the sharppingof the elastic on my wrist because her wrists are not made to be pinned to my bed.Thwap!I do it once more because I’m looking at her arse again. This time, the bright-blue rubber snaps.
Was it a sign?
Probably.
A sign that I’m going to need a lot more rubber bands.
11
MIMI
“Coward,”I mutter, slapping the sheaf of papers down next to the binding machine. “He gave you the perfect opportunity to lay your cards on the table, but instead, you’re in here trying to impress him with your admin skills.” Jerking open the drawer, I pull out a binding coil and a couple of random colored front and back pages. “Could’ve had him eating out of your hand… maybe even some other place,” I add, lining the body of the report between the two. “But why settle for hot sex with your hot boss when you can get a hearty pat on the back for not only finding the damn report in his email but printing him a hard copy and binding it, too.”
It's fair to say I’m disgusted with myself. It’s also fair to say I spent the rest of the afternoon trying to make sense of our exchange. I’m trying not to make my interest in him too obvious (because desperate is never attractive) while Whit pretends not to notice it. I know he’s not that oblivious—I’d studied his interactions with the opposite sex on many occasions. Granted, those were different times, but the man still has it.In spades.
To make matters worse, my coffee was cold when I got back to my desk. I was counting on it to tide my appetite over until I left the office for the day because it’s true, I had left my lunch of the Tube, which meant I felt compelled to give Joe, the homeless veteran who camps near the building, my last five dollars. I mean, pounds. This was problematic, to say the least, because I hadn’t at that point realized I’d left my bank card at home. It wasn’t a great start to the day, and I haven’t eaten since a slice of toast at breakfast. As Doreen would say, I was so hungry that my bum was eating my knickers.
Whit had left for a meeting off-site not long after our exchange, which I thought might leave me plenty of time to overthink. About ten minutes after he’d gone, a courier turned up with a pretty box wrapped in a blue ribbon instead of the usual paperwork. It had my name on it so, of course, I opened it. Inside was a gourmet packed lunch that outshone the ham and cheese roll I’d left on the Circle Line line. My very fancy-looking late lunch included an edamame salad, two tiny salmon and avocado bagels, a packet of gourmet nuts, a berry fruit salad, a strawberry smoothie, and a delicious lemon tart. All for me!
But did Brin order it or Whit? I know who my money is on.
For all its loveliness, I pick at my lunch while barely tasting it. My mind is awash with conflicting thoughts. Did he call me into his office to stop me from talking to Brin? I see the way he looks at me, and I feel the electric-like attraction bouncing between us whenever we’re close. But he runs so hot and cold, yet even when he’s being a grump, I still find him so hot.
I’ve got nothing. No ideas and no place to go. Which is how I find myself in the copy room after six thirty, in no great hurry to go home, completing my not-so-grand admin-overachieving plan.
“No!” My specially designed cover sheet snags on the coil, tearing at the corner. “Dammit!”What kind of idiot company buys a wire coil when plastic coils work much better?Sliding the cover sheet from the top of the pile, I scrunch it into a ball before launching it at the box designated for paper waste. Still muttering my disgust at binding machines, paper, men, and the universe in general, I whip out my phone and send the cover sheet to the colossus of a printer again. I slap my phone down, anticipating the machine’s whir as it digitally rouses itself.
It takes a moment or two for the machine’s lack of whir to penetrate my black mood. But when it becomes clear nothing is happening, I indiscriminately stab the buttons with my finger. The thing beeps in protest, then gives me a little attitude on the display panel.
No paper.
“Asshats,” I complain, tugging at the paper tray as though the thing is lying to me.
But it isn’t.
I stomp my way over to the supply closet, flip open a couple of lids because why wouldn’t people put the lids back on empty boxes? It makes so much sense! Urgh. I toss the empty boxes behind me, find a non-empty one, and pull out a couple of reams. Flattening the paper to my chest, I swing around in the cramped space when something hinders my forward motion in the doorway. The second law of motion states: force equals mass, multiplied by acceleration. That this mass is accelerating at a rate powered by frustration means I ignore the resisting tug at the door. At least, until I hear the ripping sound. I try to turn but my stupid skirt is caught on something.
My stupid skirt is caught on a stupid nail, and my stupid self is about to make matters much worse.
“No!” The fabric rips from my hip to the middle of my back. Worse, as I twist, I force the tear in another direction, making a huge flap over one cheek of my ass. A literal ass cheek envelope—a window to my butt! I think I might’ve caught myself on a nail too, but I’m too angry to pay any attention to that.
“This day istheworst,” I grate out as I try to work the fabric free. Of all the days for this to happen, it would be one when I haven’t paired my outfit with a longer jacket. Bare-assing it home on the London Underground is not the kind of experience I want to endure. Not that it matters because, at this rate, I won’t have a ripped skirt to wear because it won’t budge from thefudgingnail!
But then, success! Success that sends me stumbling, a nearby desk the only thing preventing my fall.
My skirt is ruined, my ass might be bleeding, and my temper is more than a little frayed. I’ll need a dozen safety pins or maybe some duct tape. If anyone asks, I’ll just tell them it’s a new look.Straight off the Milan catwalks.
I return to the store closet, much more carefully this time, and begin pulling open more boxes. Pens. Ballpoint. Sharpies. Highlighters. Folders. Toner and ink. There’s not even a packet of rubber bands in here. I find myself pausing in my rummaging. Why did Whit slip a rubber band over his wrist? Is it some kind of anxiety prevention? He doesn’t strike me as the anxious sort.Aversion therapy?Maybe it was just what he said it was; just somewhere to keep it. I forcibly push away my pondering. I have bigger problems, like getting home tonight without exposing my ass to half of London.
A search through the rest of the copy room offers nothing in the way of a solution. I end up slumped over the small desk, raking through the drawers, but there’s nothing there, either. Nothing beyond a couple of grungy old hair ties, at least, which might do in a pinch. Maybe? Somehow? Lord, I don’t know! I guess I should be relieved most people have gone for the day because maybe I can make it back to my desk and…
I have a stapler! I could staple this sucker together, then wrap my jacket around my waist! This is as far as I get with that plan as, in the periphery of my vision, the door begins to swing open.
