Page 2 of Scoring Eden

I need new ends. Evidently, mine are faulty.

It’s fine. Everything’s gonna be okay. You’ll figure it out later. Just get through the day first.

Wheeling my chair over to the cabinet that houses the cleaning supplies, I heave it open and fish out some dried-out antibacterial wipes and an old rag.

Another thing Anderson considers less important than a fancy new sofa: cleaning supplies.

Hatred for my boss is a cloud of putrid smoke inside me as I drag a dry wipe across my hands, cursing when it does nothing to reduce the staining. Even spraying product onto my skin doesn’t produce any results, so I accept my fate and turn my attention to the window instead.

“Did a squid explode in here?”

My head rears toward the voice, my finger jamming onto the lever of the bottle I’m holding and shooting the product directly into my eye.

“Motherfucker!” I clutch my face, tears streaming as the chemicals make good headway in burning off my retinas.

“Are you okay?”

Half blind, I peer at the man through my fingers and force a smile. “Dandy.”

He tilts his head to one side as he takes me in, cowered in my swivel chair with the rag clenched in my blue hands and an eye that I can only imagine is the color of the surface of an active volcano. “You sure about that?”

I try to force my eye open to prove that I’m fine but immediately close it again. Fuck, this shit hurts. “Mm-hmm.”

He rocks back on his heels and grimaces. “You should get some water on that.”

“I’m fine.”

I am, in fact, very, very much not fine.

“You look it. There a restroom here?” I cock my finger left to indicate that it’s down the hall. Yes, please, leave me alone. Allow me some dignity in my suffering. But no dice. He returns within thirty seconds, in which time I’ve managed to wheel myself back to my desk and am actively considering fleeing the country.

Which I can’t do, unfortunately. Not least because my passport expired years ago, and I still haven’t renewed it, but I'm a twenty-eight-year-old single mother who lives in a one-bedroom apartment with no monetary resources.

Swallowing my pride, I allow my gaze to flicker back to his—sparkling blue, shimmering like the surface of Lake Washington, and containing more amusement than I feel comfortable with, given my current state of affairs.

He holds my stare for a moment before scanning the length of me. My bloodshot eye. The ink stains on my skin. The strands of dark hair that have slipped free from the bun on top of my head.

Smirking, he eats up the space between us and extends a piece of wet paper towel out toward me. “For you, m’lady.”

I blink at the saturated gift in his hand, nose scrunched. Unwillingly, my gaze travels beyond it, to the gray marl of his sweatpants, then over his white t-shirt that must be at least a size too small for how it stretches across his chest. His arms don’t fare much better, muscles bulging from the sleeves in a way that must be uncomfortable. Then I move up to his dark-blond hair, pulled back into a topknot far neater than my own, before moving to his lips.

It’s always the most attractive people that bear witness to my humiliation.

“You should probably wait to check me out until after you’ve cleaned your eye.”

My face drains. Ashamed of my very existence, I snatch the wet paper towel from his hand and hold it to my eye.

“Wasn’t it the other one?”

Get a fucking grip, Eden. I move the towel to the other eye, sinking down in my chair to the sound of a soft chuckle. My cheeks burn, shame prickling at them like an open flame, and for a horrifying moment, I think I might cry.

“You look flushed. Are you not feeling so good?”

Through gritted teeth, I force out, “You’re making it worse.”

“What?”

I chance a peek through my good eye, finding two winking dimples and a roguish smile. “The shame.”