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“Tony, thank you, but no. I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“It’s only lunch,” he said, disappointed.
“It’s never just lunch,” she replied, turning to him. “You have to trust me on this. Unless it’s for a single lunch, and I have your word you’ll never invite me again, I have to refuse.”
She didn’t say that just standing next to him raised her blood pressure, that her body had responded to his touch and even his smell. No.
“I can’t do that,” he mumbled. About to say something, he caught himself, turned away, and left for the stairwell.
“Great,” she said, a mix of disgust and remorse flooding over her. Evidently, #34 hadn’t had a workplace discussion on sexual harassment so she wouldn’t have to deal with any man.
She debated calling after him, but restrained herself. The office was as she’d left it the day before. It was clear Connie was a neat freak, too, with messages in her tight, small printing, as if it had been typed out, thumbtacked to a white paper-covered bulletin board. There was a message for Bridget in a sealed envelope.
Dear Bridget, welcome to #34. Thank you for tiding up our office. It was nice coming in and not having to clean up after another like I have had to in the past. See you at four.
So although she’d passed the test of Connie, she’d failed at keeping male colleagues at bay. Trying to put it out of her mind, she sat at the desk and went through her checklist for the morning, all the while the image of Tony Saint and his broad shoulders shimmered in her field of vision.
At nine she got up for a cup of coffee, and there was a tap on her door. It was Tony.
“I have to apologize to you.”
“No, you don’t,” she said, anxiety building as she pushed past him. “No apologies necessary.”
“Now there’s going to be weirdness between us.”
“No, there’s none, at least from me. I need coffee.”
He followed her out into the garage. The men were polishing trucks and stocking supplies like on any quiet day.
“Can I explain why I don’t want to have lunch? I mean, my ego must seem huge to you, and for that I’m embarrassed.”
“I totally get it,” he said. “I wouldn’t ask you to lunch at work if I didn’t want to get to know you better.”
“And if we did go that route and dated, maybe even got serious, and then we broke up, how uncomfortable would that be? I have to work.”
“You don’t live with mommy and daddy.”
She giggled, shaking her head. “No, please God, no.”
“Why would that be so bad?”
“Well, my parents are strict Irish Catholics.”
“Ah, gotcha. Mine are strict Italian Catholics. We have a bust of Pope Pious in our dining room.”
“Like Buca Di Beppo?” she asked, slapping her leg.
“Exactly, only Roberta is serious about it.”
“Roberta is your mom, correct?”
“Right. She was worried about you using your breast pump in the bathroom. She made us clean the camper van again before Big Mike could drive it in even though it was already clean.”
Bridget giggled, touched that they’d gone to so much trouble for her. She’d have to write Mrs. Saint a thank-you note.
Stirring creamer into her cup, she glanced over at Tony, who was watching her. “I guess we’re having coffee together,” she said, resigned.
“I’m here for no reason, okay? No threat of coffee.”
