by Sara Ney
Spencer takes a handful of chips and shoves them in her pie hole, chomping with her mouth open, orange pieces of various sizes falling from her mouth and onto the carpet. Her desk. Her pink sweater.
Her tits.
The tight garment makes them look supple and soft and squishy and why am I looking? Do I want her to file a complaint for harassment, for fuck’s sake?
I drop my eyes from her chest as my lead drags.
Her chips chomp and crunch.
Drag.
Chomp.
Drag. Chomp.
“Hi! Hello.” A woman appears in the threshold of Spencer’s office, scowling, a stack of plans in her arms. “Hi. Can the two of you cool it in here? Good God, I can hear the racket from my office.”
“Sorry Karen,” Spencer mumbles through a mouthful of cheesy corn chips, debris still casually falling from her pouty lips. “It’s his fault.”
She has no shame.
Karen stands gawking, glancing from me to Spencer. Me. Spencer. When her scrutiny lands on me once more, it lands there long and hard, evaluating. Her hawk-like gaze narrows. “Are you from the south side?” she asks, as if she’s inquiring about my gang affiliation. As if I’m from the wrong side of the tracks.
“Yes.”
“That figures.” Karen lets out a hmph before ambling away, head shaking in disgust, mumbling about manners and respect and millennials.
Spencer swallows, reaching for a bottle of water, chugs down a few mouthfuls, wipes her mouth. “Ah.” She replaces the bottle top. “What a snack. Mmm mmm delicious.”
I stare after the woman who just chastised us. “Who was that?”
“That was Karen.”
“Why is she so judgy?”
“Hello, I just told you—she’s a Karen.”
I feel my face scrunch up. “Am I supposed to know what that means?”
Spencer rolls her eyes. “Guess not.” She sets about ignoring me, the way I wanted her to ignore me earlier. The way I willed her to before I walked into the office this morning after my meeting. Just let me work, I silently prayed while riding the elevator up to the thirtieth floor. Don’t be cute, just let me work.
Newsflash: Spencer Standish is just as sexy as she was yesterday—and she isn’t letting me concentrate on work today. In fact, she isn’t letting me sleep, or eat.
I lay in bed last night, staring up at the ceiling wide-eyed, listening to Humphrey saw logs. Every time I closed my eyes, I could only see my new officemate’s sarcastic smile and hear her sassy laugh.
The last thing I need to be thinking about is what her body looks like without those soft, touchable clothes. A body I’ll probably imagine later, covered in chip crumbles and donuts.
I’d eat stale chips off her boobs any day of the week.
I shake my head to clear the fog out of my brain. Blaine and Brooks would love this predicament I’m in—crushing on my deskmate. Tempted to flirt with her. Forcing her out of my thoughts, feigning annoyance when I actually think she’s fucking adorable and irresistible.
And smart.
Sexy and so damn clever.
Yup, the guys would love this. Especially Blaine, who would win our bet if I admitted the feelings I was beginning to feel. Tingles of interest.
Sorry, Spencer—I want those baseball season tickets. Like I said, it’s not personal.
Okay—it is.
“You look serious.” Spencer raises one brow. “I feel a rule coming on.”
“Are you suggesting one?”
She does that chin tilt I’m becoming a fan of. “I think I am.”
“Okay, let’s hear it.”
“Rule whatever number rule we’re on: no purposely being annoying to distract the other person. It’s unprofessional.”
“I agree.” A jerky nod. “You were purposely being annoying.”
Her mouth opens and closes like a mackerel. Or a bass.
“So were you.” She insists on arguing, this one. Argumentative and stubborn.
“Not at first,” I argue back, because I’m argumentative and stubborn. Go figure.
Spencer’s hands flatten beside her keyboard and she levels me with a stare, rising up in her chair a few inches. “Are you telling me you had no idea your pencil was that insufferable?”
I cock my head. “I don’t think an inanimate object can be insufferable.”
“Agree. To. Disagree.”
6
Spencer
“Repeat after me: that guy is not worth the head space.”
“That guy is not worth the head space.” I do as my best friend Miranda tells me to. She works a few blocks away and meets me for lunch most days, including today. “Although, can I just say—he is super cute.”
“Puppies are super cute. Kitties are super cute. Grown men are handsome. Or hot.”
“Fine. He’s handsome and hot—are you satisfied?”
“But is he a nice guy?” Miranda pushes and pushes and pushes. “I won’t tolerate it if he’s not a nice guy.”
“Um. He might be.” I wouldn’t know, because all we’ve done is test each other’s patience by arguing. “I see glimpses of nice.” Not many, but a few? Like the time he… And that time…
Er.
Yeah.
Miranda takes a sip of her cappuccino. “Where does he work?”
“On the south side.”
Miranda levels me with a blank stare. “I don’t know what that means. I thought you just said he works for your company.”
“He does. On the south side.”
My friend narrows her eyes. “Speak English.”
“He works on the other side of the building. If you’re using a compass, it’s on the south sid—”
“Okay, okay, I get it, you nerd—he’s on the opposite end of the floor. Why didn’t you say so in the first place?”
I thought that was what I was doing.
“It’s not my fault you’re directionally challenged.”
It’s true. Miranda will almost always get us lost if she has to drive us somewhere, not one to utilize any type of navigational system. She says they’re untrustworthy and speak to her in a “tone” that doesn’t sit well with her.
“Anyway,” she says in an attempt to get us back on track. “What’s his name?”
“Phillip.”
“Phillip what?”
I shrug, dipping my adult grilled cheese sandwich into a big bowl of tomato and basil soup, then bite the sopping end off.
Mmm, so good.
“I have no idea what his last name is.”
Miranda stares. “How am I supposed to social media stalk him if I don’t know his last name?”
“Company directory?” I suggest, continuing to eat. The afternoon weather took a turn, and this soup combo is hitting the spot, warming me to my center. It’s one of my favorite comfort foods, and I’m halfway done with the sandwich before Miranda finds Phillip on the company website.
“Phillip McGuire,” she reads out loud. “Senior Buyer.” My bestie glances over at me. “What does that mean?”
“Eh, I think it means he awards contracts to subcontractors and suppliers for each of the projects we’re working on. Does that sound right?”
“How the hell would I know?” Miranda rolls her eyes. “I’m a jewelry designer—I work with pearls and gold, not concrete and…and…”
“Rebar? Stone? Plumbing?”
“Sure. What you said, nerd,” she says. “There isn’t much here, just his name and where he went to college, and how long he’s been in construction.”
“Let me see.”
She turns her phone so I can look at Phillip McGuire in color, a blip on her small screen. Using two fingers, I enlarge the professional headshot.
Plaid shirt. Thick black hair combed to one side in a dorky cute way. Pleasant but aloof grin—as if he knew he was required to smile but wasn’t feeling it at the time. I tilt my head a smidge to study it.
Actually, he looks constipated—like he had to
take a shit but couldn’t find a toilet.
I snicker, studying it some more.
He had the beginning of a beard in the photograph, dark and bristly. Coupled with the blue and green plaid flannel, it sends warm shivers fluttering down inside my stomach, creeping their way farther into my lady parts.
I’m a sucker for plaid and beards and agitated smiles, evidently.
Ugh.
“What’s that look?” Miranda asks, sounding an awful lot like my officemate.
“I don’t have a look,” I object, pushing her phone away to eat more lunch.
“Yes you do. Your face is bright red.”
“So? This soup is hot.”
“Spencer Standish, your face is red because you’re staring at his picture. You have a crush on someone at work—why won’t you just admit it?”
“Because, if I say it out loud, it becomes true.” Everyone knows that—it’s like telling everyone your birthday wish. Or revealing what you wish for when the clock strikes 11:11. “And personally, I think dating someone from work is a horrible idea, with a capital W-H-O-R-E-I-B-L-E. Horrible.”
“Need I remind you who dated Nate from the IT department at her company for two years?”
“Yeah—and who had to quit when the company found out?”
“Nate?”
“Exactly.”
“Okay, but we had a no-fraternization policy. You don’t.”
“We don’t?” I crane my neck to glance at the microscopic words on her phone.
“No, I just checked and couldn’t find anything in the online manual for potential new employees. You can have your cake and eat it too.”
I push the soup around with my spoon and consider the question. “That’s only because the CEO of my company has been dating his secretary since his wife found out he was banging his secretary.”
“Hello, this all works out in your favor.”
“First of all, Phillip McGuire does not want to date me.”
Miranda sips her own soup, wipes her mouth, then rolls her eyes. “And second of all?”
“Second of all, he might not even be single. He could be married.”
“You seriously think he’s married? How old is this guy?”
“My age?” There’s a good chance he’s in a relationship. “Possibly.”
“Has he said anything about a wife? Or a girlfriend?”
I give her a look. “Miranda, he isn’t going to tell me he has a girlfriend. We just met—you ease into information like that.” Besides, he isn’t one for idle chitchat, made a rule about small talk, and the whole corn chip/pencil debacle put him over the edge. When I left for lunch today, Phillip blatantly ignored me, and if my eyes weren’t deceiving me, his body visibly relaxed when I passed him on my way out the door.
If he’s attracted to me, he’s doing a terrible job of showing it.
Tall, brawny, masculine Phillip—the quintessential man’s man, and not so much of a metrosexual. Unexpected in a city like Chicago, where most guys try too hard to fit in, to be too modern, or are just as fake as women can be when they’re single and trying to mingle.
Single.
Kind of wish I knew if he was or not so I could tone down or ramp up the flirting accordingly. It wouldn’t do to embarrass myself over someone who isn’t available.
Not that it’s stopped me before.
7
Phillip
I pause in the doorway of Spencer’s office, rendered immobile by the sight of a grilled cheese sandwich on my desk.
I love grilled cheese.
I’m trying not to love Spencer.
Slowly, I shuffle my way inside, back from the restroom and a quick lap around the breakroom on a hunt for lunch that turned up empty.
Nothing appetizing.
It’s half past one in the afternoon, so the starvation game is strong—and wouldn’t you know it? Grilled cheese happens to be one of my all-time favorite things in the whole wide world. It’s in a Styrofoam container, with a white, covered cardboard bowl next to it, and I’m hoping and praying it’s soup for dipping.
“Where did this come from?” I ask, a bit suspiciously, removing my laptop from the desk and resting it on the floor to create more room. I grab one half of the sandwich, palming it; the thick bread is packed with cheese, sliced diagonally.
I bite down.
It’s still warm.
Ooey, gooey delicious cheese (which will probably give me gas later, but right now, my stomach does not care).
“It came from me.” Spencer’s voice is small as she briefly glances up with a hesitant smile, finally clicking away at her own keyboard.
“Did you make this?” I ask dumbly, for lack of anything better to say.
“No, silly. I went to lunch and brought one back.”
“How did you know I love grilled cheese?” I moan through a mouthful of bread and melted dairy.
“I didn’t. That’s what I had for lunch, and I just ordered another one for you before I left.”
I glance at the sandwich while I chew. “Why?”
Spencer sighs as if the answer is obvious. “Because you came in late, and you didn’t leave for lunch when I left for lunch. I had a feeling you wouldn’t, and I noticed you only eat food that’s provided in the breakroom, thought you might enjoy a sandwich.”
Whoa.
Okay.
“That was…” I pause, unsure. “Nice.”
“Is that so hard for you to say?” Spencer laughs as she moves the mouse for her computer around its pad. “Don’t sound so put out about it or I won’t bring you food. Not if you don’t want me to.”
My stomach is affronted by the mere suggestion, and I’m hasty to reply, “No—I appreciate it. It was nice.”
She flips her long, dark hair. “I know.”
Dammit!
“It was nine bucks,” she informs me as she begins clicking open files on her desktop. “So, yeah.”
“I’ll pay you back.”
“All I’m saying is, don’t puke it up in the garbage.” Spencer spins in her chair in an attempt to get the last word in before presenting me with her back. “It wasn’t cheap.”
Great. Now I have to choke it down with that on my mind while she watches me devour the damn thing, waiting for me to vomit the whole meal into the trash.
My stomach growls again, warning me against idle chitchat. Less talking, more eating, it grumbles.
“Did you do something to this?” I eyeball the sandwich skeptically, though it tastes fine and not at all like it’s been poisoned. “It’s safe to eat, right? No arsenic?”
Spencer swivels in her chair to glare at me. “Why would I do something like that? My goal is to stay out of prison.”
“So you can watch me puke into the garbage?”
She laughs, tipping her head back. “That does sound like something I would do.”
“See?” Still, none of this stops me from devouring the offering. I remove the lid from the white container—surprise, surprise, she did bring me soup!—and proceed to dip my grilled cheese.
It’s raining outside, and the temperature has dropped below fifty, so the combo platter is the perfect lunch. I savor it, especially since I also didn’t have to pay for it myself, a novel concept. No one ever buys me lunch! I am always the one paying, especially when I’m with my cheap-ass friends. Everyone gets alligator arms when the check comes to the table, and I’m typically the one stuck paying.
Speaking of my friends, I have a bro date with them tonight, a quick drop-in for drinks to catch up since we’ve rarely seen one another lately, ever since Brooks went and got himself relationshipped.
Unlucky bastard.
He swears he’s happy, but how can he be having lost the bet and his sweet, sweet season tickets? He loved those tickets more than life itself, but apparently not more than he loves his girlfriend Abbott. Losing had to have hurt—I know I’d be sulking if those tickets had been mine. Brooks, on the other hand? He’s taking it pretty well. S
ays the love of a great woman is worth it and he would give them up all over again if it meant finding Abbott.
I’ll be the first to admit, Abbott is a badass chick, and I probably don’t judge him too harshly for falling in love. She’s gorgeous, adorable in her own way, and loveable. Not at all annoying like my deskmate for the week.
I glance up.
Spencer is straight-up studying me as I attack this sandwich like a fucking caveman, dark brows in the hairline above her smooth skin. Her long lashes flutter occasionally, just enough to let me know she’s still breathing.
Why is it so hard to tell if she’s amused or disgusted?
Does it matter?
Nope.
I can’t date her.
I tear off a hunk of the second half of the sandwich, grateful it was made on huge slices of thick sourdough bread, and I chomp, cheese dripping down my chin.
Dip it in the soup, sopping up the tomato base, then go at it again.
Dip. Chomp. Dip. Chomp.
“You really are a caveman,” Spencer says, reading my mind.
A caveman who didn’t have to go scavenging for food. All I have to do is smile at her and she’s bringing me shit. Not a bad day on the job.
I immediately feel guilty.
“I said thank you,” I remind her, although I didn’t actually say thank you. “Thanks.”
We settle into a companionable silence after that, her clicking away with her mouse as she moves it around the pad, me scarfing down lunch and checking emails on my phone.
A snack appears on my desk when I return from taking a piss around four o’clock, and I feel like sharing this office won’t be the worst thing that’s happened to me all year. It’s a giant chocolate chip cookie and plain granola, and I doubt it’s from the breakroom.
Satisfied from lunch, the treats, and the contracts we’ve been awarded for the project I’ve been bidding, I text Humphrey’s dog walker to see if she can pop in and play with him and take him potty. Since I didn’t make it to the office until later, looks like I’m going to stay a bit later, at least until I meet the Bastards for a drink. No sense in racing home, letting the dog out, then racing back to this part of town if it can be avoided.