Guy Hater: A Romantic Comedy

by Ethan Asher

  I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand and let out a satisfied sigh.

  "I can't believe you just did that." She raises her hand. "Wait. I actually can, considering you tore down a load-bearing wall." She narrows her fiery gaze at me. "I don't think there's anything you can do that would surprise me."

  “How about another apology?”

  “That would be surprising.”

  “I mean it, Charleigh. I know we’re not on the best terms, but I want to fix that.”

  Charleigh reaches out and grabs the brownie she’d taken a bite out of. A couple of bites and a few seconds later, she says, “You really made these?”

  I nod. “I made dinner, too.”

  Her eyes light up for a brief moment. “Thank God, because I wasn’t looking forward to my mother’s cooking. You know she’s forcing me to have dinner with her before she’ll let me drive her car.”

  “That doesn’t seem like a bad deal.”

  “So long as it doesn’t involve her cooking.”

  I laugh. “Noted.”

  I focus my gaze on Charleigh. She’s looking down at the plate, slowly chewing her brownie as she holds the rest in her hand. It’s the first time since the night back at the bar that I’ve taken a hard look at her. There’s a smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose, extending toward her cheekbones on either side. She glances at me with her green eyes, which narrow for a brief moment before she looks away and takes another bite of her brownie.

  “You’re staying here now?” she asks, lightly kicking my backpack on the floor next to her.

  “Yeah. Someone evicted me from my house.”

  “They probably had a pretty good reason.”

  A pause. “Probably.”

  “Why’d you do it, anyway?”

  I shift uncomfortably. This is embarrassing. “Apart from being left in the dark about the renovation process…” I glance around the room, look down, and mumble, “Fixer Upper.”

  “What was that last part?”

  I mumble the same thing.

  “I’m sorry, what?”

  “I was watching Fixer Upper and I thought I could take on the wall.” I shrug. “I mean Chip just makes it look so easy, and—”

  I try to explain the rest, but I’m cut off by Charleigh’s booming laughter. By the time she’s done, she’s on her hands and knees, red-cheeked and out of breath. I, on the other hand, want to crawl into a hole and die. Jesus.

  “Laugh it up,” I say when she finally stops.

  She takes one look at me and says, "Don't mind if I—" Another fit of laughter. Finally, she rolls onto her back and looks up at me with the biggest smile on her face. I no longer care that she's laughing at my expense. I'm lost in that vibrant smile of hers—how it lights up her entire face.

  “You done?”

  She sucks in her bottom lip, fighting back her fourth wind, and nods. “Yup.”

  “Dinner’s probably ready by now. Think you have enough air in those lungs to make it down the steps without passing out?”

  “I make no promises.”

  “Come on,” I say, extending a hand to help her up.

  She looks at my hand, unsure whether to take it or not. Seconds seem to dilate into minutes with my hand outstretched, waiting for her to take it, wondering if she’ll take it. Finally, she lets out a breath and takes my hand. My palm fills with an electric charge with her hand in mine, and for a moment, I forget what I’m doing as the current travels up my arm and into my core.

  When I pull her up onto her feet, she wobbles for a moment and looks as though she's about to pass out. Without thinking, I pull her slowly into me, her arms folding against my body as she rests her head on my chest without a fight. In any other circumstance, she'd be out of my grasp in half a second, but something's changed, shifted between us. I felt it in her touch, and I see it in her eyes as she glances up at me.

  “You okay?”

  “A little light-headed,” she says softly. She blinks a few times and then pulls away from me. A few awkward moments pass where neither of us moves or says a word, unsure about what just happened.

  “You two alright up there?” Deanna calls up the stairs.

  It’s enough to jolt both of us awake.

  “Be right down,” I call back.

  I grab Charleigh’s arm as she passes by. “Let me take care of your car.”

  She shakes out of my grasp. “The same way you took care of that wall? I’ll pass.”

  I shake my head. “I feel bad for taking down the wall. Call it my atonement. I have to head back to my house anyway and grab a few things.”

  “You won’t be able to get in without the key, though.” She whips it out of her pocket, dangling it in front of me for a few seconds before storing it again.

  “You think I need a key to get into my house, Charleigh?”

  She stares at me for a long moment. It’s kind of adorable how confused she looks. “Um, yes?”

  “Where there’s a will…”

  “There’s no will and there’s no way you’re getting back in that house without me present.”

  “I’m just grabbing my clothes. That’s it. I won’t touch anything else.”

  I take a bite out of my own brownie, watching Charleigh as she mulls it over in her head. After a few moments, she reaches back into her pocket, takes out the key, and then holds it out for me.

  I reach for it and she closes her hand around it. “Don’t make me regret this.”

  I smile at her. “I won’t, Char.”

  There’s a flash of surprise in her face when I call her Char. I haven’t called her it that in over a decade, back when we were still friends.

  She drops the key into my palm.

  “We’ll see.”

  17

  Charleigh

  Over the last week, Guy and I have reached a sort of equilibrium. Guy listens to me, pretends to be interested in crown molding, sconces, and all the other nitty-gritty, unsexy parts of this renovation. We’ve settled on nearly everything. And everything is moving smoothly. Too smoothly, to be honest.

  Guy invited me to join him and Deanna for their HGTV marathon night, and I had to decline. We’re beginning to get a little too comfortable, and I want to make sure we keep our relationship professional. I never see clients unless it’s work related, and it shouldn’t be any different between Guy and me.

  Guy: You sure you don’t want to join us for HGTV night? I’m making tacos.

  Tacos? This is a new development. There’s a short list of food, not including desserts, that I’d put my life on the line for. Tacos are at the top. So as much as it hurts me to decline…I have to.

  Charleigh: I can’t. I’m really busy with work. Christiana’s been on me since that whole wall debacle.

  Guy: Sorry about that. I didn’t want to make trouble for you at work.

  Guy: I’ll make extra in case you change your mind.

  Charleigh: Thanks. How'd the demo go this week?

  After a little pleading, I’d talked Ryder into allowing Guy back into the house to help with the demo. It was my peace offering for Guy behaving himself.

  “Oh. My. God.”

  I set my phone down and then glance around the office. I could definitely get in trouble for looking at that. After a few seconds, my phone buzzes again, reminding me that the picture Guy sent me is still waiting for me, and after a few moments of hesitation, I pick my phone back up and take a longer look at the picture.

  I’m staring at a shirtless, sweaty selfie of Guy. His hair is a mess, tangles of brown splayed out in all directions matted with dirt and dust and debris. Cheeks tinged red. His smile is wider and more brilliant than any I’ve seen. And don’t get me started on those abs. Jesus Christ, Adonis doesn’t cover a fraction of it.

  I don’t even know what to respond, so I send back a thumbs-up. He doesn’t respond, but that doesn’t stop me from checking my phone nonstop for the next few hours. I’m not looking for a response. I can’t keep my eye
s off that damn selfie.

  What is he trying to do to me? I’ve been trying to work, but every few seconds I catch myself looking at the picture that may or may not be the current wallpaper on my phone. Okay, maybe I’m staring at his photo for a longer than socially acceptable time. And maybe I’ve been imagining all sorts of things that those arms and lips could do to me. But it doesn’t mean that I like Guy. I can admire the body of someone I don’t like.

  I start thinking about the night we kissed. I was so enamored with him back when I knew him as Sebastian. It seems like such a long time ago, but I still remember every detail about that night. The way his lips felt on mine. How he made me laugh. It was the most fun I had in a long time. I take out my phone and check the time, which then leads me to unlock it and check out the selfie again.

  It’s my last time. I swear. I can stop at any time. I just choose not to.

  I'm in the midst of no more than a five-minute glance at Guy's selfie when Andrea interrupts me with a laugh. "Seriously, Charleigh?" Her arms are folded across her chest as she glares down at me and the shirtless picture displayed prominently on my phone.

  “What? Nothing. It’s—” I try to put my phone to sleep but I end up knocking it off the desk. Mission accomplished, I guess. I lean back in my chair, folding my hands across my lap as though to say, “No I wasn’t looking at a shirtless picture of my client. How may I help you?”

  “I knew something was up between you two.”

  “Who are we talking about, Andrea?”

  I try to play it cool, keeping my face impassive even though my brain is sending signals to the rest of my body to initiate sweating protocols.

  “I saw that picture of Mr. Finch. I’m sure there’s more of them too.”

  “I wish,” I nearly say, but instead, thankfully, I tell her that I don’t know what she’s talking about and that there are some scheduling issues with the new cabinets that she needs to attend to. My wishful distraction. “I sent you an email about it.” Unfortunately, she doesn’t take the bait.

  “You know the rules. And if you don’t do something, then I will.” Andrea turns on her heel.

  “Okay, great, Andrea. We’ll reconnect in a little bit,” I say as she walks away, her hair bouncing against her shoulders with each step.

  "Dear lord…" I mutter as I reach under my desk and grab my phone. As I'm hunched over under my desk, I notice a pair of Jimmy Choos enter my cubicle.

  “I just saw Andrea leaving,” Christiana says, “it’s great to see you two working so well together.”

  I sit upright and then pump my arm in front of me. “We’re definitely getting into the team spirit.”

  Christiana beams at me. “Good.”

  There's a brief pause, but it feels like much longer as I'm wondering why Christiana is inside my cubicle at 4:45 p.m. Thankfully, she puts me out of my misery a few seconds later.

  "I need you to work on something for me. It's Priority One. And you should have plenty of time to finish it."

  Two thoughts.

  One, I didn’t realize we were now using labels for priority levels. Because if I had known, I would’ve thrown in a few different options. “Priority Midnight” feels more important than Priority One.

  Two, I can't list a single project that Christiana has given that has taken less than fifteen minutes to complete, which is exactly how much time is left until the end of the workday. I have a feeling this is going to be a long night. And once Christiana outlines everything she expects me to finish before the start of the workday tomorrow, I know it's going to be a long night.

  Scratch that. It’s going to be a horrible night.

  “I’ll get it finished, Christiana,” I say, smiling as though I’m not dying on the inside right now.

  “Thank you so much, Charleigh. I expect nothing less from you.”

  Kill. Me. Now.

  “And other duties as assigned” has to be the worst phrase you can find in a job description. Because as I’ve learned, the only other duties assigned to me are the ones that Christiana doesn’t want to do.

  As I slink back into my chair and contemplate what foul thing I’d done in another life to deserve this, I get a text from Guy. And by text, I mean a photograph of him holding the most amazing platter of meat and veggies and taco fixings I’d ever seen. It’s just hovering there next to his mouth, all delicious, and I can feel myself beginning to salivate. But to be honest, I’m not sure if it’s because of the taco and fajita fixings.

  Guy’s usually mussed hair is styled back and parted to the right, not a strand out of place. His sharp jaw is covered in dark stubble. And that toothy, dimpled smile, paired with his form-fitting blue uniform, makes me want to…

  Stop. Thinking. Like. This.

  Guy: No second thoughts?

  Guy: I can hold off grilling some of the meat until you get here

  No, no second thoughts—more like fifty.

  I palm my forehead and sigh, still looking at the picture on my phone. I thought that the dumping ground—also known as my inbox—would cease to exist once Christiana gave me full control of a project this large, but I was mistaken. And now I'm second-guessing myself because it’s hard enough to keep my head above water with all the work I have to do here. That plus a complete renovation on my shoulders? I'm not sure how I'll get through this.

  I reach down and pull open the drawer stocked with chocolate and carbs. After deliberating between ramen noodles, a granola bar, or a packet of hot cocoa, I grab all of the above and place them on my desk. After snapping a picture of my dinner, I send the photo to Guy.

  Charleigh: I’ve got it covered.

  Guy: You’re still at work?

  Charleigh: Yup. Christiana dropped a huge assignment on me last minute, so I’ll be here late.

  I toss my phone on my desk, watch in slow motion as it skids across the surface, off the edge, and crashes onto the floor. The cracking sound, along with the deepening pit in my stomach, makes it clear that my phone is shattered.

  Faaaaaantastic…

  When I finally drag myself out of my chair to inspect the damage, I’m pleasantly surprised by the lack of a spiderweb cracking on the screen. And thank Jesus for that because I definitely do not have the budget for a screen replacement right now.

  I should probably get off my hands and knees, but right now I’m lacking all motivation. Everyone else around me is leaving while I’m stuck here for the foreseeable future. I’m moments away from curling into a ball when Andrea passes by my cubicle, smirking at me.

  Laugh it up…

  Even though it’s the last thing I want to do at this point, I stand up and then collapse into my chair as I gently place my phone back on my desk next to my depression dinner.

  Christiana drops by for a brief moment, adding a few more things to my plate before she leaves, but at this point, it doesn't even matter anymore. I spend the next fifteen to twenty minutes mentally preparing for the marathon I'm about to begin, carbing up with a chocolate peanut butter granola bar.

  I glance another half-dozen times at the picture Guy sent me, drooling at his rock hard—ahem, the tacos—before grabbing the hot chocolate mix and heading into the break room for hot water. It’s a scientific fact that hot chocolate can get you through anything.

  After the water finally boils, and after dumping as many miniature marshmallows as possible into my mug, I breathe in the delicious goodness and then promptly burn my tongue. And then my throat because I’m not a savage who lets hot chocolate go to waste.

  I’m on my way back to my desk, feeling a little better from the chocolate and a little worse from the pain of scalding liquid sliding down my throat. As I turn the corner and trudge to my desk, careful not to spill the precious liquid from my mug, I catch a faint but familiar scent. My skin prickles as goosebumps spring up along my arms and neck. Guydar.

  “Charleigh…” Guy’s deep voice rumbles as he leans back in my chair, feet propped up on my desk. His arms are folded across his ch
est, biceps bulging beneath the sleeves of his blue uniform.

  Yowza.

  "Making yourself at home, I see." I walk toward him, shoving his feet off my desk as I maneuver around the desk. "What are you doing here?"

  Guy doesn’t say a word. He sits there, regarding me calmly while my body feels like it’s in free-fall. Finally, he leans forward, the chair creaking as he reaches inside the large paper bag that’s on my desk.

  “It’s Taco Tuesday,” he says. Guy lays out two containers and a more cylindrical object wrapped in foil on the desk. “I wasn’t about to let you eat this.”

  Guy grabs the cup of instant ramen from my desk and drops it into the trash can.

  Normally, I’d fish that cup of MSG-laden noodles out of the trash, but right now Guy has rendered me both immobile and speechless. I’m floored by his thoughtfulness—that he’d drive all the way to my office to make sure I’m eating a proper meal.

  I watch Guy as he opens up the containers. With each container he opens, a new delicious aroma swirls in the air. Rice and black beans. Pico de gallo and guacamole. Strips of grilled chicken and ground beef. Fresh, homemade tortillas that are still steaming when Guy unwraps them from foil.

  “Did you make this? Because I know my mom did not. I know you remember some of her creations. Tuna casserole surprise?”

  Guy laughs. “The surprise was whether we’d be able to keep it down before we left the table.”

  I snort far too loudly, which makes Guy laugh, and by the time I’m done laughing, my stomach feels like I’d just finished a grueling abdominal workout.

  I wipe the few tears beginning to roll down my cheeks as I try to regain my breath. To this day, I still don’t know everything she put into it or how she was able to make the noodles both crunchy and mushy at the same time. It’s a miracle I made it to adulthood eating my mother’s cooking.