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"I read your articles, you know. All those orgasms . . . I'm curious how you do your research. I bet Marilyn would love an article on inner office affairs. Someone needs to tell the secrets so many wonder about. Come on. Think about it. We could be good together. Give her oversized editor ego something to really pull in numbers. And I'd love to be your test subject."
A playful squeal barrels out of my mouth. I grab a small stack of papers off my desk and lightly hit the side of his head in a fanning motion. "Shoo, you flirt. I have real work to do."
He laughs, standing upright and slowly backing away, not being discreet at all considering there is little to no privacy in a cube farm. "Don't knock a younger man until you've tried it. I'm going to change your mind. All it takes is time." He winks and walks away, leaving me in my glass hole with a mystery vase of roses. I'm not sure I've ever seen orange roses in the flesh, but let's face it. I'm not one to get flowers delivered. Maybe it's from a client of the magazine or something. I turn it over, tearing the seal on the back of the small envelope, and then remove the decorative card. One phrase is all there is.
I'll pick you up at 7.
I flip it over to find nothing but a blank side. The smile is already gracing my face. It's been a long damn time since I got flowers, and none ever this full and beautiful. Hmm. What to do? I swivel in my chair from side to side, thinking. The muscle between my thighs clenches, reminding me of this morning. Oh, what the hell. This could be fun; a temporary mental break I need.
"Orange, huh? I'm guessing you don't know what they mean." I glance up at Tiffany, who’s biting on the end of a Twizzler—the tell-all for romance in this place. Some joke and call her the love doctor here, since she gets all the columns about love and sappy shit. We all want to change up what we write about here and there, but the editor, Marilyn, just keeps tossing each one of us the same category over and over like she has our personalities already categorized on her computer.
I often wonder how much good advice or coaching you can offer someone when you don't play all the positions. Word around the company is that she's still a virgin . . . at twenty-nine. If true, I don't know what she's holding out for, because in my experience no guy is ever going to be worth all that hard work. "I'm guessing you're going to tell me regardless," I say, sarcastically.
She walks forward, shoving the last bit of Twizzler in her mouth, and grabs one of the roses, pulling it out of the vase with her hand cupped under the bloom. She brings it to her prominent nose balanced with her long, highlighted, blonde hair and smells dramatically, before lowering her hand to the long stem, examining it from top to bottom. "Orange: desire, enthusiasm, passion. It's a mixed breed of friendship and love represented by the yellow and red roses as parents, residing somewhere in the middle. They can be a token of expression from simple fascination to someone that wants to take a step further than friendship but not quite ready to love."
She suddenly smiles and waves the bloom in front of my face. "Have you had a passionate encounter recently? I thought you had a lock on those panties."
My mouth drops slightly, staring at her. I grab the stem, jerking it out of her hand. "Who said anything about a lock on my undergarments? They come off plenty. I'm just a little pickier than some would like to think. You're one to talk, Mrs. Cleaver."
She grabs another rose from the vase, still waving it around like a wand, touching the bloom to my nose. I swat it away. "Oh, Tynleigh, don't believe everything you hear. We're all phonies in a sense compared to what we write." She winks. "But I'm sure you know that . . ." Her eyes fall downcast to my lap. "Do you really expect me to believe you'rethatexperienced with a polished reputation?" Her smirk is angering me. Usually Tiffany isn't this bold. I'm not sure what's gotten into her. "And also, you might be surprised what you'd learn if you ever just asked me yourself instead of assuming everything someone says is true. Appearance can be deceiving," she says. "Just because I like to dress like Mrs. Cleaver doesn't mean at night I'm not someone completely different. I will say that whoever sent you those roses knows his stuff. You may want to play with him for a while."
She walks away, swaying her little pencil skirt fanny back to her cubicle at the other end of the row, leaving my floral arrangement one rose short. I stand, peeking my head outside of my cubicle to see if anyone is responsible for this as a joke. It's fairly calm and quiet, the only sounds coming from phones ringing or things like copy machines, fax, or printers. I don't see anyone lurking and watching. Everyone in contact with me knows I'm not a romantic. I don't speak of boyfriends and I don't get random deliveries of flowers at work with mysterious instructions. I don't go on dates. I go to work and when I feel like it I go out. I mingle, I drink, and if I find a hot contender with some brains to go with it I may take him home for a little fun. That's as far as my love life goes.
Last night was . . . well, a lapse on my part from my brother and his fiancé acting like sex-crazed animals. Normal, sometimes sexually active people can only take so much before they need the same explicit activities tempting them. I saw a hot asshole and left the rest of my normal checklist out of the equation. Assholes don't linger. I let myself have a true one-night-stand where I asked no questions beforehand. There was no lengthy encounter where he bought me drinks and we flirted effortlessly and conversed until it was time to give in without looking like trash.
Last night I left my class at that club and I have to say it was the best damn sex I've had in a long time. I take a seat back in my chair and glance at the card one more time, before picking up my phone and opening the text message I got earlier from Bryant when I was helping Kambry find her wedding dress.
Me:Are you responsible for the embarrassing delivery I got just now?
I send the message and toss my phone down on my desk, staring at my computer screen filled with words in an open document. It starts to vibrate on my desk. I glance at the screen, the change in my face already beginning until a grin is present. I answer the call, putting the phone to my ear. "I'm going to kill you. How'd you find out where I work?"
"I have my ways when I want info," he says, laughter present.
"It was Saxton, wasn't it?"
"Just a fucking good guess after paying attention."
"Yeah, well, you owe me a really good orgasm now, Playboy," I whisper into the phone. "You can put that facial hair to good use somewhere it'll be welcome." I look out the glass wall, a few of my coworkers looking into my cubicle as they pass by. "People are already staring . . . and I'm sure they're going to be asking questions."
His voice deepens. "Be ready at seven and you can have whatever you want."
I rotate around in my chair, staring at the only solid wall in this entire square known as my workspace. "Why? It's really not necessary just because you know my brother. I don't date. You could just come over for a little bit of fun . . ."
"You aren't getting out of this that easy," he says.
"What if I have plans?"
"Nice try. I know Saxton and Kambry already have plans alone. You get a night off from your sisterly duties."
The tickets for Madison Square Garden become the focal point from his comment. "I do have friends, you know. Who said I meant Saxton and Kambry?"
"You can argue this all you want. I'm picking you up at seven whether you're dressed or not. If I have to give you a little motivation before I will." My thighs squeeze together from the tone of his voice. "I'm only in town for a little while. Stop being stubborn and go out with me."
The bold color in the roses captures my attention. Passion . . . Desire. I exhale. "Fine. You may as well be prepared to stay over then, because I'm using you in the most selfish way after. Be there at seven. Not a minute later."
I disconnect the call and toss my phone back on my desk. The rose from earlier is still in my lap. I pick it up. My heart speeds up a little bit with anticipation. The one thing no one knows: I haven't been on a real date in years. One bad experience ruined me. I swore off men in that sense after that, and I haven't caved once since then. Now, here I am, suddenly agreeing to break my own rules for a man I literally just met and jumped in bed with. One-night stands aren't supposed to turn into dates. They're appealing for a reason: no complications. Still, the way he devoured my body in the most beautiful way has me agreeing to something I know I should stay far away from.
I shut down my computer and grab my purse, placing the tickets and my phone inside. If I'm going to do this, I might as well do it right. I have some tickets to deliver to lover boy and then I guess I'm going to be getting ready. I hope I don't regret this.
