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He’s always teasing me.Mockingme, with one sardonic eyebrow raised, hungry eyes boring into mine. Silently challenging me to bite back.
And I do like sparring. But what would it be like to have Jude’s praise for once? To lay down our weapons? To take his plush bottom lip between my teeth and gently pull?
Someone wrestles a window open on the other side of the room, and a fresh breeze barges inside, ruffling everyone’s papers on their desks.
I raise one eyebrow, determined not to seem flustered, even as a tiny, traitorous part of me wants to call Jude’s bluff. Wants to ask for an invite to Jenkins HQ after all, and see what might come of it.
Becauseof courseI want to see this handsome jerk in his natural habitat, and find out which color he paints his walls. See what art he hangs, if any, and which brand of coffee he drinks, and whether he’d still tease me like this if we were alone.
Would I want him to? I think so.
But maybe I’m giving him too much credit. Judging by the landslide of crap on his desk, Jude must live on a trash heap out by the city limits. He probably collects rainwater in a barrel to shave, and hangs his clothes out to dry on a broken stepladder.Probably gazes into his own beautiful, evil eyes using a scratched old hubcap.
“So tonight’s the night,” he says now, tapping on his keyboard and bringing his monitor to life, logging in with a blur of fingers. It’s so unfair that this man looks good in the electrical glow—healthy and clear-skinned, with sharp cheekbones and bright eyes. No wonder I hate him. Why can’t he look sickly and tired like everyone else? It’s plain rude.
“Hm?” Tonight?
“The rooftop party,” Jude says, enunciating each word as he glances over at me. “The Grapevine ten year anniversary thing. You do work here, right? You didn’t just wander in from the street like a raccoon?”
My phone buzzes and I ignore him, tapping on the screen and frowning at my latest email like it’s super important. Anything to avoid that electric gaze.
“More pizza coupons?”
Falafel, actually. God, I hate this man.
“Excuse me, please.” Scooping up my phone, I stand quickly and tug my dress straight. “I need to make a very urgent call.”
“Get me dough balls!” Jude yells after me, breaking the spell of quiet that settled over the office all morning. Suddenly, phones are ringing and desk drawers are slamming, and someone starts blasting music through their headphones. The calm is over.
I power walk all the way to the elevator, and don’t breathe properly until the doors swoop shut. My cheeks are pink in the mirrored walls, and my dark hair is a mess thanks tosomeone.My pulse taps visibly in my throat.
But once I’m alone, where no one else can see, I allow myself a reluctant smile.
Dough balls.Such an ass.
Two
Jude
Islump in my chair once Violet is gone, leftover adrenaline turning my muscles to lead. My heart’s working extra hard right now, pounding away against my ribs, and my mouth is dry. Swigging from my water bottle, I watch the sign above the elevator count down the floors.
Where is that little harpy going? Who messaged her?
And will she be at the party tonight? Because there’s no point in going if Violet won’t be there.
No offense to the rest of the people working at Grapevine, but there’s only one person in this whole office who makes me feel alive, and that’s my snarky little rival. If she’s not coming, I might as well go to my usual Friday night basketball game. Try to sweat out this constant, gnawing frustration I build up each week working opposite Violet Moore.
Hmm. What to do? A mouse pad flops to the floor as I pick up my work phone, dialing the extension for the boss’s assistant. Chair creaking, I snatch up the mouse pad and stuff it in an overfull drawer.
One ring.
Two.
Maybe I have gone overboard with the mess. It’s becoming a Healthy and Safety hazard, but I can’t back down from Violet. Can’t let her think she’s won by huffing at me through those pouty red lips. I only started piling up the mess at all because she rolled her eyes at my stack of mail that one time, and now look at me. One day there will be an avalanche, and I’ll die here, buried in post-its. Snuffed out by my need to make Violet scoff.
Will she mourn for me? Will she wear all black like a widow, and refuse to spar with anybody else? Hope so.
“Hello!” The boss’s assistant, Hazel, sounds as chipper as ever down the phone, even though she works for the grumpiest man in the city. “Jude, isn’t it? Can I help with something?”
