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I can’t act on it, of course, because Rob trusts us. We need to stop while it remains an accident—granted, an accident that occurred seven times. Except even now that I’m home, Brendan looms so large in my head it’s as if there’s no room to want other things. Sleeping with Brendan was supposed to cure me of the desire to sleep with Brendan. Instead it has opened up some bottomless well inside me, one bubbling over with dangerous urges and possibilities.
Timothy drones on endlessly about the importance of branding during the Monday meeting, and I only hear the way Brendan’s voice grows raspy just before he comes.
I spend lunch thinking about the cocky way he sits, leaning back in his chair with legs spread wide—as if he’s just about to demand you get on your knees and finish him off. I’ve fantasized about doing it more times than I can count. Now it’s just another missed opportunity, one more thing I should have done Saturday when I had the chance.
I’m still thinking about Brendan when Timothy stops by my cubicle. It’s hard not to scowl openly at him. Going from fantasies about Brendan to the reality of Timothy is a difficult transition indeed.
In his hand is the only completed piece for the new branding campaign, a postcard featuring the cringe-worthy tagline Timothy insisted upon: ECU: A Place to Know, A Place to Grow, which sounds like the title of a Dr. Seuss book. He throws it on my desk like it’s an accusation in and of itself.
“I was surprised you weren’t here on Friday, Erin,” he says, lips pursed.
I sigh heavily. I knew this was coming. “I told you I was going to Tahoe. You signed my leave slip.”
“I thought you’d just be gone Thursday.”
Who takes a long weekend by going away Thursday and coming back Friday? I pull the document out of my drawer. “The form clearly stated I’d be gone both days.”
He doesn’t take it from me. “Well, this project is important, and you deciding to take off and miss a meeting does not signal commitment to your job.”
You have got to be shitting me. I know people who didn’t finish high school, yet make more than I do, and I routinely work 50- to 60-hour weeks. I don’t know if my Brendan-focused lust has left me unable to give a fuck about anything else in my life, or if it’s just four years of outrage welling up inside me, but I’ve officially had it with Timothy’s shit.
“When I left here Wednesday afternoon, there was no meeting planned. And, I reiterate, you signed the leave slip.”
His frown deepens. I see the wheels turning in his brain—he’s dying to reprimand me—but fortunately, the wheels of Timothy’s brain do a fairly poor job.
“Your job review is coming up,” he warns. “I’m going to need to see an attitude adjustment, or you’re not going to like what you hear.”
I act as if he hasn’t spoken and return to my computer screen. I’m glad I paid Sean’s tuition, but God, I wish at some point in the past four years I’d gone down a different path. I’m hard pressed to imagine a job that could make me less happy than this one.
I spend Monday night packing to move into the room free at Harper’s place while her housemate is in Europe. If I’d hoped it would give me something other than Brendan to think about, though, I was sadly mistaken.
Tuesday is more of the same. Me: throbbing and needy and miserable with want, barely capable of pretending to do my job much less actually do it. But I’m determined to put Saturday night behind me.
And then I get home and find a FedEx addressed to Brendan on the front step.
“Seriously?” I ask aloud, softly banging my forehead to the door. I’ve been fighting the desire to contact him since the moment I left last Sunday, and now fate is practically forcing my hand.
No. I’m not using this as an excuse to see him. The safest course is just to deliver it with no phone call or face-to-face contact. Before I can change my mind, I’m racing up to Manitou Springs as if the clock is running on my self restraint.
I get to his place and slide the envelope under the door, which flies open before I’ve even stood back up.
His eyes are narrowed, looking from the envelope to me with suspicion. “You were just going to slide this under my door without knocking?”
“Well, I didn’t know if you were home or busy or—”
He raises a brow. “Yes, that’s why people knock.”
“And how awkward would it have been if you’d had a girl here?”
“I already told you, I don’t have girls here.”
He opens the door wider, gesturing me in. I really should not cross the threshold. What I should do—what a decent person would do—is make an excuse and hightail it back down those stairs. Yet here I am, moving past him into his place. Stupid, disobedient feet.
He doesn’t ask if I want a drink; he just opens a beer and hands it to me. I imagine, with the anxiety I’m feeling right now, I look like I need one.
I lean against the kitchen counter, ready to bolt, and stare at the beer bottle—as if the label I’m peeling off is a bomb in need of defusing. I try not to look at him, but even in my peripheral vision I see his legs—lean and muscular at once, smooth. The hair on them is light, sparse, and barely visible. Why does he have to be so perfect? Even his damn leg hair is perfect.
“How was the rest of the trip?” I ask. “Lose any more car keys?”
