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“I’m telling you, it wasn’t that big of a deal.”
“Not a big deal! You made out with Mr. Prescott. The whole office can’t stop talking about it. Can’t you give me just one detail? Just one? Come on, Elle, it’s not like I’m asking for much.”
Colleen is a pushy bitch, my office cellmate who can’t get enough gossip down her gullet fast enough to suit her appetite. She didn’t attend the party over the weekend because she has a life back home—a husband and a couple of rug rats running around that keep her busy enough not to have time for extras, like getting shitfaced after hours and playing childish games like kissing under mistletoe.
But that also means she’s prone to gobbling up every ounce of excitement she can glean from the rest of us like a pack of Dunkin Donuts chocolate glazed, and every bite shoots her a little higher.
I pivot in my padded office chair and look into her excited brown eyes, wide and full of hope and wonder and have to resist rolling my own.
“It was just a kiss!” I spread my hands out, my voice high and my patience running thin. I don’t want to discuss this. Not with Colleen or anyone. A kiss means nothing. People do it all the time. Hell, I still kiss my grandma at Christmas dinner gatherings.
“With Mr. Prescott,” Colleen hisses, as if this is a scandal.
“So? What’s so special about Niles? Is he married or something?” I swear, if he is, I will throw him off a balcony. I do not need drama from some disgruntled housewife getting me fired. Not again.
Colleen stares at me as if I’ve grown another head. “Are you serious?”
“I guess I am, since I have no earthly idea what the big deal is.” I turn in my chair and get back to sorting papers. It’s a good thing I can multitask, because as much as Colleen likes to talk, I’d never accomplish a thing.
“Omigod. Okay.” She sounds like a schoolgirl, giddy and seconds away from spilling her guts. I’m intrigued, but I don’t turn around to show it. So I listen. “Mr. Prescott has been here for…five years? Came straight out of college, shot up to office manager almost overnight, and is single.”
“So?” I’m deflated. Utterly disappointed. Is this what she considers gossip?
“So…”
I glance over my shoulder to find her grinning like the cat that ate the canary. Her hands are patting the air between us. “Word on the grapevine is he lives with two other guys and has never dated anyone from this office. In fact, no one has ever seen him with a woman, period.”
I scowl and look back at the papers on my desk. The kiss we shared that hasn’t ventured far from my thoughts replays in my mind’s eye. “So…you’re saying…he’s…gay?”
“Gayer than a three-dollar bill.” She nods vigorously.
“Does anyone have any proof?” I’m skeptical, naturally. I mean, why would he kiss me like he did if he was a sword swallower? I felt that kiss down to my toes. Gay guys didn’t kiss women like that, did they? Not to mention, I’m fairly certain my gaydar would have gone off immediately. I couldn’t be that wrong, could I?
No, I’m definitely not wrong. I know I felt something pass between us. The way he looked at me afterward just confirms it. He felt it too. He wanted more, just like I did. Still do, if I’m being honest.
I decide then and there to tune out Colleen’s rambling and disregard everything she has to say on the matter from here on out. I don’t want to hear it. I had been on the verge of making up my mind not to pursue anything with this Niles Prescott, but now I’ve decided that I’m going to get to the bottom of this little mystery. I want proof, for myself and the rest of this office, that he’s not only straighter than a stripper pole but has a hard-on for me.
“Hey, Colleen, I need to get this work done before Mr. Dunberry hands me my ass.” I hate to be a bitch, but she’ll never shut up if I don’t cut her off.
“Oh, of course. Me too. He can be such a stickler. Did you hear what he did to Dave in accounting?”
I shouldn’t even answer her. It’ll only encourage her more. But now I have to know what Dave did and what happened. “No, what?”
With renewed excitement, she scoots her rolling chair closer and lowers her voice as she dishes the dirt.
***
Home is supposed to be where the heart is, but my puny salary doesn’t afford much. The one-bedroom, 350-square foot apartment isn’t much more than an efficiency, but it has a certain appeal that I suppose allows it to be called home. At least until I can save up enough money to afford a decent down payment on the cozy little home I’ve been dreaming about since childhood.
I set my keys down on the circular dining table adjacent to the kitchen, and kick my shoes off by the door. My purse goes on the hook that hangs in the shadow of the lamp seated on the living room end table, and I drape my sweater across the back of the loveseat as I pass through to the kitchen and run myself a glass of cool water from the tap.
Even if I could afford to splurge on Evian or whatever, I’m not into the fussy stuff. I keep my budget tight so I can one day afford to reach my goals.
After I’m properly hydrated, I grab a quick shower and change into some comfy loungewear that my grandparents gifted me a few Christmases back. They’re simple, green-and-black plaid pants and a solid green T-shirt, perfect for the temperate weather outside that I’ve allowed in through a partially open window that airs out the small space so it doesn’t hold onto the conglomeration of smells from my neighbors, which have a tendency to linger in the air.
Opening my laptop, I sign into my social media accounts and start a search for the one and only Niles Prescott, hoping to dig up something juicy. Surprisingly, there are a lot of men who share that name or some combination of it, and it takes me a few minutes to sort through them all and finally narrow it down to the one I want.
