See You Monday: An Office Romance (Weekday series Book 1)

by Tiffany Costa

My jaw hit the floor in the lobby two stories down.

  “Are you laughing? Haha, yes, very funny.” He paused and I composed myself. Then a little cackle escaped me and I apologized. He huffed loudly into my ear. “Will you or will you not go to my flat and get me some fucking knickers?”

  If he was going to be mean, then I was going to enjoy laughing at him. “And then what? Just walk into the men’s locker room?”

  “I’m sure plenty of women have been in this room for far more devious reasons.” He hissed, but I could feel the smirk on the other line.

  “I might consider it, if you ask nicely,” I said sweetly.

  “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you? I’m glad I could be of comedic value.”

  “Ah, ah, ah,” I sang into the phone. Isaac’s desperation shouldn’t have been so funny to me.

  His tone lightened, but the rhythm of his words was a sharp staccato. “Celeste, dear, would you be a darling and enter the privacy of my home, rummage through all of my things, and bring me something with which to cover my naked arse before my balls recede into my pelvis from the bloody air conditioning? Please. I’m fucking freezing.” He thought that a little vulgarity would set me off balance and get me to comply without further torture.

  He was wrong.

  I had to pinch my nose to stifle my laugh, took a breath, and tried to answer as coolly as possible. “Sure boss, would you like me to bring you a thong or your tighty-whities?”

  “Fuck, I’ll go commando at this point. I swear if Kieran finds out, if anyone.”

  “Stop being dramatic, I’m just enjoying my current position of power. No one is going to find out. Send me your address.” I gave him one last laugh before a momentary silence passed between us.

  “Please hurry.” His voice was small and defeated.

  “You’re welcome.” I sang to him, catching a glimpse of my reflection in the window, a grin as wide as my face smiling back at me.

  “A dark suit, please. And shoes. Contacts are in my bathroom. Bastard even took my glasses. Keys are on my desk somewhere. Thanks.”

  He lived in the third-floor penthouse of a small building nearby, just a block away from our coffee shop. The solid black door wasn’t opening. I jingled the key around long enough to think I had gotten the wrong set. I felt it finally click and my legs hesitated before walking in.

  I expected an absolute mirror image of his office the day I'd arrived. I imagined his taste was monochrome and ultra-modern. The way he dressed in solids and trendy cuts that were expertly tailored to his physique, I expected something that reflected the man I knew in the office.

  However, I walked into a pristine space that still held the faint lemony smell of wood polish. The apartment was no more than one thousand square feet in all. From the door, I walked directly into his living room. It was more of a built-in library, painted a midnight blue so dark it appeared black in the shadows. The books were broken apart by things he’d picked up, I assumed, on his travels; canisters, bowls, little statues from around the globe, a Grecian bust. An antique wood coffee table housed a traditional Chinese blue and white painted bowl of knickknacks. A copper-colored industrial style reading lamp hung between two cozy navy reading chairs, a pair of reading glasses perched on the marble table between them. Closing off the library from the kitchen was a long dark brown leather sofa, a colorful throw blanket strewn across it. A Turkish rug sprawled under the seating area, the bright blue, red, and yellow pattern seemed out of place with the rest of his things. It worked, but it wasn’t a choice an interior designer made. That rug meant something, perhaps even something as shallow as Isaac simply liking it.

  The hardwood floors were a deep brown and led seamlessly through the kitchen and down a short hallway. I had to remind myself that I was on a mission. It felt a little like an invasion to be analyzing his home. The kitchen was gorgeous, though. I nearly salivated as I passed by the midnight blue cabinets with brass pulls on the bottom and blinding white cabinets lining the top, the counter and backsplash a chic white marble. There was only one black door at the end of the hallway, leading to his bedroom. My mission wouldn’t be too difficult to complete.

  I tried not to look at his bed, like it was some forbidden secret. But I did catalog that he didn’t have any dressers, just a nightstand. Where were his clothes? I peeked under the bed for storage. Nothing. No hidden closets along the wall. I walked into the bathroom and found a walk-in closet full of suits, jeans, tee shirts, and shoes. A woman’s dream closet. I pulled down a suit I’d seen him wear several times, rummaged through drawers to find some socks and underwear. He must have trusted me immensely to have allowed me access to his home. My stomach lurched when I opened his underwear drawer. A lot of trust to let me know what kind of man he was. Turns out he’s a boxer briefs guy.

  The absolute sexiest kind.

  A nervous flutter awakened in my core.

  If I could roll my eyes at myself I would. I stuffed the pair of black briefs in my pocketbook and hooked the whole outfit onto one hanger.

  Wait.

  I pulled out my phone and texted Isaac. If he stole everything, how did you shower and still have your phone?

  Isaac replied instantly. The image of him draped in a towel, pacing a locker room, waiting for my call, sent a blush across my chest. Don’t you take your phone with you to the shower?

  No. I answered. It will get wet… water damage?! I replied, feeling the stupid thrill of borderline inappropriate conversation. Conscious of my word choices, even if his question had been innocent. I grabbed his box of contacts and headed to the front door.

  And because I couldn’t resist, I compared our prescriptions and found out he had worse vision than I did.

  I took one last look at his home, making sure I didn’t leave anything differently than when I came. Which was silly because I hadn’t touched anything except his clothes. I locked up and power walked my way back to the office.

  The gym was virtually empty when I got there. I knocked on the door to the men’s locker room. The door flew open after the second knock.

  Isaac’s tattooed arm grabbed me by the elbow and pulled me through the door. He closed it and locked us in together. The towel around his waist left very little to the imagination. I darted my eyes away from him and held out the suit.

  “Nobody is in here but us.” He took the suit, “Thanks, you’re an angel.”

  “I thought I was in the wrong apartment for a minute,” I poked fun at him in an attempt to calm my racing heart. I kept my eyes shielded.

  “I have a maid who comes every few days, thanks for the compliment.” I heard him set it down somewhere, the clank of the hanger on metal.

  “I was just, you know, expecting chaos.”

  “Did you go snooping thoroughly enough to find some pants?”

  “You’re holding them,” I looked up, pointing at the suit. He was all lean muscle, dark hair dusting his chest and tracing a trail down to his groin. The v shape of his hips was chiseled from marble and I was caught staring at him. Very much, staring. Mouth agape, tongue-tied, brain shut off… staring. Isaac had another tattoo on his calf and one on his left pectoral, the hint of a tattoo on his thigh. I had the sudden urge to get down on my knees and…

  “Bloody Americans. Pants… like…. my boxers, I’m not actually a fan of free-balling.” He shot me a devilish side-eye. His thumb hooked into the towel around his waist, holding up the only thing stopping me from seeing him naked.

  I snapped to reality. “Oh shit, sorry.” I rummaged and pulled his boxer briefs and socks from my pocketbook.

  “See anything you like or are you waiting for more?”

  I averted my gaze and held up his underwear. I stammered, finding it hard to form words or coherent thoughts. Kieran was right all along, Isaac was a magnificent specimen. Magnificent enough that I was just a split second ago entertaining a thought about oral sex. “No, I mean yes, no but not like that. No. You’re a conceited bastard.” I wished the floor would open u
p and swallow me whole. I had the kind of skin that got splotchy at my neck and chest when I blushed, and I could feel that skin hot and traitorous.

  I was fleeing from the room when he called after me, “You might as well watch. I put on a great show!” Now he was laughing at me. Oh, how the tables turned. “Thanks!” His gratitude was met with the awkward jangling of the lock as my hands trembled and then the heavy slam of the locker room door between us.

  I performed nothing short of a mad dash to my office. There were no thoughts in my head. Just the image of Isaac in that half-towel, the size that’s used outside of your tub to stand on. It hadn’t occurred to my frozen, heartless, soul that I could see Isaac nearly naked and be immediately turned on. I hadn’t felt that wonton curiosity since the very beginning of my relationship with Anthony.

  And I’d been caught staring.

  The image of his grinning half-smile, standing absolutely proud of his obvious sex appeal, made me want to hurl from nerves. There was no way I could work for another two hours with him in the next room. Or worse. In the same room.

  What if he wanted to dictate! Oh God, please, no.

  My stomach was in knots thinking about how awkward we’d be. I should have just shoved the clothes through the doorway.

  But he’d pulled me in.

  And boy was I very, very, happy he did.

  CHAPTER 14

  Isaac

  Well, at least she liked what she saw. I mused as I finished buttoning my shirt. How I would face her after this was a complete mystery to me. She’d probably spent no more than ten seconds looking at me, but the exposed skin on her collarbones let me know that at the very least she wasn’t indifferent towards my mostly naked body.

  Or maybe I was imagining that and was possibly sexually harassing her.

  I groaned at the thought, stabbing the elevator button. By the time I got into my office, Celeste was already on a call in her room, holding the company phone between her shoulder and ear. Her fingers were typing furiously in front of her. She looked up at me, her face devastated, and motioned for me to come to her. “He just walked in,” she said and hung up.

  Celeste turned her laptop to me and my heart stopped. It took me a moment to make sense of the image she showed me, the headline in bold black letters. A mass of people, dirty and huddled together, riot gear and a dissipating gas surrounding them. Fear in their eyes and curled up bodies, agony in their faces.

  “There’s a feminist march outside of the Kremlin.” Celeste started. My phone dinged, cutting her off. I pulled it open and the headline blared at me on the small screen.

  “What?” Celeste crossed over to me and I lowered the screen so that she could read on my side. She took the phone from me and read the breaking news aloud. “Peaceful women’s march in Moscow turned violent Friday afternoon. Police deployed tear gas, arrested dozens of women, several women currently in critical condition.” She was scanning the article, giving me only what was necessary. She gasped and raised her voice, slowing her speech as well. “Sarah Taylor, of Leeds UK, arrested for inciting the riot when officers asked her to stop speaking in front of Kremlin. Details are unclear if the arrest was justified, but it has been reported that the arrest prompted violence from the crowd. Social media has linked Sarah Taylor to several radical feminist accounts calling for the arrest and trial of several high-profile Russian politicians and businessmen. One of which Miss Taylor claims to have dated for several years.”

  “Check social media.” I took my phone back and she pulled out hers. I dialed Meghan, she picked up after several rings. “Meghan, hello?”

  “I know why you’re calling. They’re in a meeting right now,” she rushed her words and paused as if to say something else.

  When she didn’t, I made my demand clear. “I need access. And I need an interview with Sarah Taylor.”

  “You know I can’t do that.”

  “Meghan.”

  “Isaac.”

  Celeste was looking at me curiously… anxious, observant.

  “Meghan I’ll do anything you want. I just need an interview with your boss and Sarah Taylor.”

  There was a long pause and I prayed she wouldn’t say anything sexual.

  She sighed and relief welled up inside of me. “Come to my office.”

  “You’re amazing. You’re the best. I’m bringing my co-author.”

  I put her on speaker while she spat out the address so that Celeste could take it down.

  “Let’s go,” Celeste tossed me my keys and without a word we were down the hall and jogging down the stairs. “Who’s Meghan?” She asked as we cleared the first landing.

  “She’s a… friend who works for one of the members of parliament who is on the international relations board.”

  “Is there anything I should know about this friend before we get there?”

  So, she did pick up on the nuanced tone of a man begging a woman he’d slept with before for a favor, and the tone of that woman giving in to an old flame. Everyone always said Celeste was detail oriented. “No, it’s not like that anymore. She’s engaged.” I didn’t owe Celeste that information, but I felt she had the right to know that, yes, Meghan might get suggestive.

  “Okay,” was her only answer as she plopped down into the passenger’s side of my car.

  After we cleared the lot Celeste broke the awkward silence. “I brought all of your research so far into human trafficking in Russia. I think we should start writing tonight.” Celeste was scrolling madly as I drove. “We need to publish something asap. We need to be the first to release some kind of comprehensive look at the problem."

  “Maybe Michael will allow the release of a preliminary report.” I mused.

  “I hope you didn’t have plans this weekend,” Celeste didn’t look up from her search. I peeked over at her, she tucked her hair behind her ear, engrossed, eyes flicking back and forth in an attempt to gather more information.

  “At least you have that diagram to get us going,” I replied. She peeked at me for a split second and nodded with a smile. I had disappeared at this point. To her, all that mattered was those women on the street. I felt a swell of affection well up in my chest for the stoic woman next to me.

  “Listen to this,” Celeste turned up the volume on her phone. “It’s Sarah.”

  I was with these men. I know how they see women. We are a commodity to be bought and sold. The system keeps the men in charge so that they can control us! No more! Us women, we must take our freedom… if not peacefully, then by force!

  “'Bought and sold.’ What does she mean by that?”

  “The caption has the hashtag ‘sex trafficking,’” Celeste answered.

  “Wish I knew what forum she’s been organizing on. Anything showing her arrest?”

  “Not that I’ve found yet. A lot of these are her speech and other women speaking out for equality. Oh, shit. Isaac, look.”

  An officer in riot gear was beating Sarah Taylor to the ground while she screamed. The camera was shaky, shots reverberating in the background. “Screen record everything. It could get taken down.”

  “Good call.” She was silent the rest of the ride, screen recording as many videos and posts as she could. The horrific shrieks of panic, and battle cries of Russian women filming and describing the events filling the car.

  When we arrived, Meghan was at the gate smoking a fag, nodding to the gatekeeper to let up the guard. I thanked him as she scooted into the backseat. “Meghan, this is Celeste.” They exchanged pleasantries.

  “I got you a meeting with the committee. You’re welcome, Isaac. I’m about to put you on the map.”

  I looked at her through the rear-view mirror. “Thank you, Meghan.”

  “I asked them if they wanted a reputable organization to break the story or the press. And, since the press loves exposing their little sex scandals all the time, it wasn’t too hard to convince them.”

  “So we’re in? Exclusively?” Celeste turned to the backseat.

&n
bsp; “You’re in. There’s a lot of paperwork to sign because some details are classified.” Meghan rushed us through the process and within minutes I was leading Celeste into the conference room and pulling out a chair for her to take a seat at the table, the only woman of power in the room.

  I turned to Celeste, her eyes wide and forced smile somber.

  I was acutely aware of the hostile undertones of the committee’s pleasantries. Celeste’s eyes narrowed as one of the men asked if it was necessary to bring a secretary. I waited for a second to see if she wanted to rebuttal herself, but stepped in when she looked to me. “Miss McAlaster is my co-author. I don’t do anything without her anymore, she and I work as a team. I’m sure you’ll realize she’s the brains of the operation soon enough.” The way the eyes of so many stuffy old white men devoured Celeste and then raised their brows at me, suggesting we were one and the same, brought bile up to my throat.

  We were nothing alike, I assured myself. My initial attraction to Celeste had morphed into infatuation. Her beauty wasn't why I admired her or why I respected her—but it simmered there, my desire for her. I felt a ridiculous sense of possessiveness. It threatened to boil over as I entered a pissing contest with the other men in the room, as I caught one sneaking a look down Celeste's blouse.

  “Let’s get started,” she said as she rustled paper and took out her pen. She started signing waivers and agreements, reading quickly and only glancing up every few minutes as all of the men at the table made small talk and introduced themselves. She leaned into me from time to time, her lips to my ear, murmuring the clauses of what we were signing. I took her pen and signed where she indicated, keeping up the small talk while she did the work.

  Meghan ran off to make copies of the agreements, closing the door behind her.

  The ringleader Mr. Roberts, a career politician and Meghan’s direct boss, turned to us and told the story. “At this time, we can’t give a lot of details. It appears to us that Sarah Taylor moved to Moscow after secondary school and worked as an escort. She’s been seen with several oligarchs in Russian tabloids.”