Page 3 of Not Safe for Work

But he’s my Lex Luthor. My gateway to the Dark Side. My nemesis.

And that feeling is mutual.

Maybe a 9.5.

His deep brown eyes burn like caramel, brittle but fiery, definitely leaving layers of scar tissue if you get too close. Maybe a 9.75.

It’s casual Friday, and his navy Henley fits him in all the right ways, skimming over broad shoulders, curved biceps, and the tantalizing hint of defined abs.

Fine, a 10.

He turns to grab his phone off his desk, the tendons in his forearms flexing in a way that borders on erotic. Dark jeans cling to the most magnificent ass I’ve ever seen. He’s a sculpture with a discus competing in the Olympics circa 800 BC.

Fine.

Rafe Gallagher is a fucking eleven out of ten.

The catch—and isn’t there always one?—is Rafe’s personality.

When he opens his mouth, his stock plummets, landing him squarely in the neighborhood of a floundering two. He’s overconfident and smug, and we’ve spent the last several years locked in a battle of professional wills.

He tucks his phone in his back pocket and strides past my cube, throwing me a smirk that conjures up images of fairy tales, villains, and maidens locked in high stone towers.

I frown because despite our offices being so close together, Rafe and I haven’t interacted much beyond professional necessity (including several work-related disagreements) for a while. But lately, I’ve caught him looking at me more than once with an expression I don’t understand.

And that smirk.

(Admittedly, there are days when that smirk makes him a twelve.)

“It’s cake time, Trishara!”

Again, I’m caught off guard when Molly Ackerman appears around the corner with a huge smile on her face. She’s one of my best friends and the only thing that makes this place tolerable. She has pale white skin dusted with freckles. Standing barely five feet tall, she’s wearing a denim jumpsuit, bright pink Chucks, and her usual retro cat-eye glasses. Her red hair hangs to her shoulders in a wild mess of curls. She’s adorable, and I love her.

With a roll of my eyes, I stand and smooth down the front of my outfit. I’m wearing a vintage-inspired peplum dress in hunter green and a pair of cherry-red ballet flats. I don’t believe in things like casual Friday. “Let’s get this charade over with. They better have sprung for bakery cake and not that cheap grocery store crap.”

“You love the cheap grocery store crap,” Molly says, linking her arm through mine.

“I know, but it’s the principle.”

We join the flow of humans as we coalesce like swarms of locusts infesting the central atrium filled with grey tables and grey plastic chairs. It seems we’re two of the last to arrive. A hand waves as we enter, and Brian gestures us over, pointing to the two empty seats he’s saved at the front.

Amid the din of chatter, I glance across the row at Rafe sitting at the far end.

Every department in the building is here: procurement, accounting, and human resources.

Clearly, they all heard about the cake, too.

Thanks to these other departments, the gender ratio is a little more balanced. Me, Molly, and a handful of others make up the small but mighty contingent of WMC’s non-male engineers. There was a time when the idea of smashing through glass in a male-dominated field was thrilling. But over the years, it’s just left me as wrung out as a threadbare dishcloth.

Someone has set up a small stage at the front of the room consisting of large wooden blocks covered in pebbled grey carpet. Grey. Everything is grey. I used to love this color. It represented my future. The color of corporate America. The color of high-rise offices and boardroom tables. Of inked contracts and binding handshakes.

But as the years have passed and I’ve been skipped over for every promotion I’ve been more than qualified to fill, grey represents something else. The color of a wheel that spins endlessly, only stopping for a chosen few. Now, it’s the color of my faded future.

David Gallagher—Rafe’s father—steps onto the stage and clears his throat. He’s deigned to visit the peasants today.

Our branch lies sprawled like a concrete octopus in the suburbs, where the parking is ample and the surroundings are sterile. In contrast, WMC’s glossy executive team perches at the top of one of the highest skyscrapers in downtown Chicago.

David looks just like his son—only older and more refined. Handsome, painfully so, and I glower at the annoying gift of the Gallagher family genes. He wears a perfectly tailored suit, probably cut from the souls of past WMC employees.