Page 25 of Fangs with Benefits

I can’t help thinking that I’m just a poor judge of character. Hailey is always trying to find someone for me, but it feels safer to avoid dating altogether. If I don’t go on dates, I can’t start liking someone, and if I can’t start liking someone, I won’t hate myself for trusting the wrong person again. So, I tuck my phone into my desk drawer, muting my texts and this week’s plea for double dating someone new.

I will start dating again. One day. I miss the companionship, the sex, and having a person that was… mine. Someone I could go to with all my gossip and tiny woes. Not yet, though. Not until I get my life together, whatever that looks like.

For now, I need to focus on the task at hand: extension cords. Everyone keeps complaining about not being able to find anything when we get quick turnaround equipment requests, so I’ve been reorganising one of the supply shelves while stewing on the failings of my love life. Last on the list is the big clear tub of extension cords on the top shelf, which are just barely out of my reach.

I press onto my toes, holding my breath while I try to gain purchase on the piece of the tub that’s sticking out over the ledge. It moves an inch, and I would celebrate, but there’s a lot more to go so I swing my arms and try again.

Another inch.

Cool, so I’ll get this box down at some point today, maybe. There’s a sheen of sweat covering my face and chest, but I guess this is better than the annoying tickets Ryan’s been assigning me this week–or this month, this year.

I repeat the process two more times, until the tub teeters almost off balance enough to fall towards me. I greatly miscalculate, though, because when I stretch to knock it one more time, it tips off the shelf towards me just as I’m trying to catch my balance.

I gasp and brace for impact, only for two hands to reach from behind me to catch the box before it can brain me. I know it’s Elijah before I even turn around.

He lifts the box easily and deposits it on the ground next to us.

‘Your unwillingness to ask for help, or even a stepladder, astounds me,’ he says. His gentle ribbing surprises me almost as much as his sudden proximity to me in this storage closet. I take a step backwards only to trip on one of the carboard boxes I’d emptied.

One of his hands snatches the back of my elbow and tugs me towards him before I can fall right onto my ass. God, and now we’re standing even closer together.

‘Thanks,’ I mumble and shake his grip off my arm.

‘Any time.’

We stand in the quiet closet for the space of three breaths, him saying nothing, just smiling in that friendly, affable way he has. I shift on my feet and try not to wring my hands.

‘Did you need something, or…?’

‘Oh.’ Elijah snaps to attention. ‘Right, no, was just walking to the kitchen and saw your life flash before my eyes.’

‘Death by extension cord,’ I muse and his eyes sparkle with amusement. ‘Well, then, I’ll just…’

I gesture to the remaining items for me to organise.

‘Would you like some help?’

‘Not particularly,’ I say, though if it was Devi asking it would have been an eager and grateful yes.

‘Right.’ Elijah watches me for another long moment until I raise my eyebrows at him. ‘Right,’ he echoes and steps out of the closet, making me feel like maybe I can breathe now.

‘Hey,’ I call, stopping him before he can retreat too far. He whirls around. ‘What were you getting in the kitchen?’

Elijah opens his mouth, but no sound comes out. I’ve never seen him get something from the kitchen, so I’m tempted to call bullshit and say he was just coming to bother me. ‘Kenneth told me he hides some of the good coffee pods in the back of the drawer by the microwave.’

I gasp, scandalised and thrilled to learn this. I’ve always thought that the best of the pods disappear way too quickly, but I thought someone might have been pocketing them. ‘That little shit.’

‘Well, now you know where to find them.’ Elijah holds his finger up to his lips and winks–winks!–before walking away.

It’s not until I’m halfway through sorting the cords that I remember I’ve never seen him drink coffee.

I am drafting a short story about a bag of speaking clementines in my journal when Jen, the department manager, peers over my cubicle and sing-songs my name like she’s really happy to see me. This is how she sounds when she wants something; I know her tells.

‘Jen,’ I say, no lack of suspicion in my tone. I slide the journal into my desk drawer and swivel to face her.

‘Molly Mae,’ she says, though Mae is not my middle name. Jen is a tall Black woman in her forties with better style than basically anyone in the department. She has a bright pink mug that says Girl Boss on her desk and, to be fair, she really is a heavy hitter around here, so I think she’s earned the title.

‘Can you invite Elijah to happy hour?’ she asks.