Thick As Thieves: A Romantic Comedy

by Julie Olivia

  A smile spreads slow and steady, and the sides of his eyes crinkle once more. “Me too.”

  Our answers to each other are short, clipped. I’m trying to figure him out, and it seems he’s doing the same with me. It’s almost a game, seeing just how much we can get out of each other with the fewest amount of words. It’s like our method of interaction is colored by our profession, like we’re attempting to penetrate each other’s defenses. And, while I’m enjoying it, I’m still curious what the winner will get in this game we’re playing—possibly a different type of penetration testing.

  Natalie’s influence is not good.

  “So, burned recliner?” he asks, leaning back in his chair, running a hand through his hair. He’s amused, and maybe it’s ease, but it seems like cockiness. However, I also might just be distracted by his unfairly large arms hanging over the back of the chair to consider anything else.

  There’s no way a man this good-looking is also nice.

  “Belonged to an ex,” I say. “I don’t feel bad.”

  “And you just moved here, I guess?” he asks. “Because of the ex?”

  “Got tired of England.” I avoid the question about my ex. To speak about any of my exes is to speak of the devil, and to speak of the devil is a sin. “Mum’s in Italy. Dad’s in Scotland. It was just me and Leia.”

  “Leia?” he asks, more of a statement than a question, laughing.

  “My cat. Also, you are full of questions,” I say. My stomach feels jumbled, but I chalk it up to sudden discomfort rather than attraction. He’s pressing, and in a foreign country, I can’t help but feel suspicious. Not only is there the fact that he’s a stranger, but my track record with men seems to show all signs pointing to ‘asshole.’

  You hear stories about girls going missing all the time…is that prevalent in America? I must consider…would my dad be yelling at me to get out of this situation? Hell, would Natalie be yelling at me to avoid yet another ‘wanker’?

  Super-secret strike two for mister Owen.

  Unfair? Maybe, but I’ve been burned too many times to think otherwise.

  Owen mimics my eyebrow raise in response and chuckles. “I just want to get to know you better.”

  “How do I know you haven’t been stalking me?” I ask.

  “How do I know you haven’t been stalking me?” There’s a pause, and he glances out the window, squinting like some old Rococo statue, preserved in marble. He looks back to me before I can pretend I wasn’t staring. This only makes him smile again. “Is this how you conduct all dates?”

  This conversation started cute but is slowly devolving into something all too familiar. David was like this, so quick with his comments, as were Rory and Bill. Suave and, not just confident, but cocky. I can’t decipher which Owen is. You get cheated on three times and tell me you’re not suspicious of all men. If it walks like a duck and talks like a duck, it’s probably a cheating arsehole.

  “What about you?” I ask. “You didn’t just move here.”

  “That’s right. Lived here all my life.”

  “And do you always pick up women in furniture shops?”

  “Only those I’m actively stalking.”

  The balls on this man. I feel a tingle rush between my legs, my bare-bones dry spell yelling, That tongue can do much more than say snarky things! I open my mouth but don’t respond.

  “I’m kidding,” he quickly says, a hand darting out to the middle of the table as if to stop my anxiety from flying toward him. “You’re intense, do you know that?”

  His tone contains an underlying hint of laughter. That’s not the first time someone has described me that way. I’m direct, and while it’s effective in professional environments, I’m aware that it’s off-putting—at least, in London it was. Most people want a Type B girlfriend, bohemian and go-with-the-flow. Meanwhile, my picture may as well be next to the dictionary definition of Type A.

  Strike two and a half.

  Owen squints at me. “I’m sorry. You seem upset. I thought this was going so well. There was the chair and the pillow…you know…”

  I smile. His stumbling over his words is cute, but something about this whole thing feels so fast—mostly how much I already like every little joke he makes.

  “It was,” I admit.

  “So, let’s start over? I’m Owen.”

  “I’m Fran.”

  “Nice chair.”

  “Nice pillow.”

  “Come here often?”

  He smiles. I like it. Slightly more than I should. The ridiculousness of the comment is a joke, I’m sure, but something about it seems off—and I want nothing to do with it. Or, maybe I do, but no, I can’t. I really can’t.

  Inevitable strike three.

  I take my mobile out of my chest pocket, pretending to check the time.

  “I really should go,” I say, letting it fall back in.

  “Oh,” he says, rising from his chair just as I’m getting up from mine. I tuck my to-go cup in my purse, zipping it closed just enough to steady it in place and bending low to pick up my newly purchased chair.

  Owen runs his hand through his hair again. How did I not see that before? His hair isn’t cute at all. It’s too purposefully messy, like a man trying to appear forbidden and un-coiffed. I bet he has girls wrapped around his finger. And I almost fell for it.

  “Well, I’d love your number,” he says.

  I shake my head. “I’m busy right now. I’m sorry.”

  “Wait, but I didn’t even get your last name.”

  “It’s probably for the best.”

  He looks utterly baffled. I absolutely understand why he would be. “What?”

  “I gotta get back to work,” I say.

  Before he can say another word, out the door I go, shifting the chair in my arms, stumbling down the sidewalk.

  I continue huffing until I feel my leg tense up followed by the sting of heat. I look down. The top of my tea has popped off and it’s splashed onto me. The pantleg of my white overalls is stained, and it may as well be a direct representation of how ruined I feel.

  Yes, I was not ready for a so-called friend.

  2 Owen

  Fran. She said her name was Fran. Beautiful. Intelligent. Fierce. Guarded.

  I barely register Emma’s giddy inquiry of “Did you pick up the dragonfly pillow?” before tossing it on the couch and starting work. The pillow is the least of my concerns right now.

  It’s evident that Fran has personality bursting from her seams. Layers upon layers of it, and I wish I could have burrowed down to the fluffy core. And she’s a pentester, another person in the industry—what are the odds? She left before I could talk to her about it more, exchange numbers, or, hell, even get a last name. But after knowing her for a mere thirty minutes, I look back and realize I should have expected nothing less from that firecracker. She’s like Cinderella without the shoe, which makes finding her an impossibility. And being new to the city? It’s not like I could ask anyone if they know her.

  “Hey, have you guys met a blonde British woman around town?”

  Doesn’t mean I won’t try, though.

  “It’s the city,” Taylor says, swiveling in her chair to face me and pulling one earbud out. It’s instant, as if she was waiting for someone to start a conversation. Friday afternoons in the office generally lend themselves to distractions. “There are a billion blonde women.”

  “Okay, good point,” I say, exhaling and looking up at the ceiling. The white tiles are blank enough to let me imagine her once more. “Blonde with those wispy-type bangs?”

  “Owen, you’re being so wonderfully specific,” she deadpans. Taylor sits at the desk in front of me. Like Fran, I would classify Taylor as an intense woman. Her eyeliner does that thing where it shoots out in thick lines from her lids, like she’s daring someone to comment on how ripped her pants are or ask whether she and her partner are ready for children. I’ve seen both situations; I don’t recommend starting either conversation.

/>   I sigh. “Yeah, I know.”

  Taylor’s eyebrow rises in question, and her lips curl into a smile. She pushes back in her chair, leaning an elbow on the armrest. Then she stares.

  “What?”

  “Holy shit,” she says on an exhalation. “You’ve met someone.”

  “Oh my goodness, did Owen meet someone?” Emma’s cheery voice was sure to follow once we started talking. She gets up, cat ear headphones already removed, her flower-adorned mug set between her two palms and her rump resting on the edge of Taylor’s desk. God, she’s quick, poised with her knees tucked together and back straightened, prepped to engage in gossip. I might say I’m surprised she came over so fast, but I knew she was listening. There’s a reason I addressed both of them.

  “Those noise-canceling headphones don’t fool me,” I say, nodding over to the abandoned set. “You need a refund on those things because you hear everything.”

  “Did you meet someone?” she repeats, nodding with an eagerly open mouth and wide blue eyes as she actively ignores my accusation.

  “Well, kind of,” I say, exhaling and succumbing to the interrogation I invited upon myself. “Not exactly?” Emma’s nosiness is something I would normally resist, but I’ve been wanting to talk to someone, anyone, about Fran, so I’m willingly letting the conversation drag me under like quicksand.

  Emma is the bright personality still grounded with reason, and Taylor is the glue that holds this place together with snark covering up a secret heart of gold.

  My life simply would not function without these two women.

  Emma has been our information security expert for almost two years, but it only took her one week to make herself at home here. Before, when it was just Taylor, Ryan, and me in this sixth-story office, the place was dull. We kept the floors their default cool concrete. No rugs. No decorations. Just exposed beams and the most comfortable swivel chairs we could buy for the three of us working our very long, exhausting days. But Emma came along as our first new hire and brought with her an entire nursery of plants, quotable coffee mugs, and accent items. I wasn’t sure what that meant at first, but the bright blue coffee table housing the stacks of books we had initially placed on the ground has really grown on me. Plus, my assigned mission to retrieve the dragonfly pillow got me out of the office, and the design really did tie the office together.

  “You met someone but also not?” Emma’s face falls like a puppy teased by a shaken bag of treats.

  “He said maybe,” Taylor drawls.

  “I said not exactly,” I interject.

  Taylor rolls her eyes. “Once again, specificity is not your strong suit, boss.”

  “I don’t pay you for your sass.”

  “Well, you do, but…”

  I point a finger at her, and she gives me a slow smirk.

  Taylor works as my assistant, and I’m convinced that on a scale from Marie Kondo to the television show Hoarders, I would be well into season eight with a basement full of animals were it not for her. When she lost her executive assistant role after her last company dissolved, I invited her to join my start-up venture. If Taylor tried to find a better job, I’d be lost, and she knows that. Taylor is the reason I don’t receive any calls past three o’clock. In fact, she’s the reason why calls seem to never happen at all. It’s not that they don’t come in—she simply routes them elsewhere. Where? Hell if I know or care.

  “So, she’s blonde?” Emma asks. “That’s all we know?”

  “Eavesdropper,” I mutter.

  “No,” she says, letting her eyes roam off to glance at a spot on the wall that she always seems to find when she’s avoiding the truth. She’s really good at that. “Just intuition.”

  “You should get into tarot readings,” Taylor muses, nodding slowly and narrowing her eyes.

  Emma scoffs with embarrassment, ruffling her short brown hair. “Do you think I’d be good at it?”

  “Yeah, and then we could see into Owen’s future love life.” Both women’s eyes shoot over to me like sharks smelling blood in the water. Though, once again, wasn’t I the one to bring it up?

  I bark out a laugh. “Very smooth transition.”

  “I know,” Taylor says, wiggling her back against the seat as if settling in for a nice movie. “So, have you met someone? Seriously.”

  “Well, that’s what I’m trying to figure out. We talked, we had coffee—”

  A gasp comes from Emma, whose hands slap the top of the desk repeatedly. “Wait, wait, wait, you had full-on coffee? You hate public coffee shops.”

  “Yes,” I continue slowly. “We had coffee, but then she just left.”

  “What did you say?” Taylor accuses.

  “What?” I lift my hands up, playing the innocent-until-proven-guilty party. “You think it was something I said?”

  “What did you do?” She addresses me like she’s reprimanding a misbehaving child.

  “I didn’t do anything!” I say with a half-laugh. I’m not guilty of anything…I don’t think.

  Taylor is already rolling her eyes and exhaling. Though, it’s less due to irritation and more in her general way of ‘Oh, Owen, you’re such a dummy.’ I get that a lot.

  “Of course you said something. You’re Owen—that’s what you do.”

  “I don’t know. I called her intense”—both Emma’s and Taylor’s mouth opens to speak, but I rush on—“but that wasn’t supposed to be an insult!”

  Emma narrows her eyes. “I’m confused.”

  “Yeah, it’s all very confusing.” I wave my hands around before brushing both through my hair. There’s no doubt I look just like a mad scientist or an old batshit poet. “At first we were talking about pillows, then we got coffee”—another gasp from Emma, which I ignore—“and then…she just left. But I can’t stop thinking about her, you know?” I bite my lip, parsing through the afternoon’s events once more. The words exchanged, the way her face changed ever so slightly after every sentence, as if each comment I said made her like me less and less. But why? “Yeah, I’m not sure.”

  “So we’re on the lookout for a blonde girl with bangs in a city with millions of women,” Taylor says, shifting the conversation back. “Is that what I’m hearing?”

  I laugh. “In a less creepy way, sure—keep a lookout.”

  “I’ll keep my ear to the ground.” Taylor says, shaking her head with a smile. “But curiosity killed the cat. Killed the Owen, I mean.”

  “I’m not allowed to be curious?” I ask.

  “She randomly left a coffee shop date…girl may have issues.”

  “Maybe it’s a British thing,” Emma says suddenly, her eyes narrowed in thought.

  “What is?”

  “I don’t know.” She shrugs. “Maybe coffee dates aren’t their thing.”

  “That feels like wishful thinking,” I say. “I think she just didn’t like me.”

  “I mean, who would?” Emma sticks her tongue out, and I mouth a sarcastic Ha ha.

  Taylor glances down at her nails, sucking in her bottom lip and tilting her head to the side. “Yeah, or maybe she’s got history. A woman scorned.”

  “Scorned?” I laugh. “People actually use that word?”

  “Ooh, yeah, that actually makes sense,” Emma coos.

  “Weird that people use that word…”

  “Maybe she’s the oddball and not you,” Taylor says, grinning.

  I sigh and glance down at my watch. It reads around two o’clock in the afternoon. I lean back in the chair, stretching.

  “It’s Friday,” I say through a small yawn. “Go home.”

  While Emma bemoans the free afternoon because she’ll always offer to go the extra mile in an effort to be polite, Taylor instantly starts packing up her computer and zipping it in her bookbag.

  “I can wrap up—” Emma starts.

  “Oh, go home, go home!” I say, waving my hands about. I extend my leg under the table to nudge her dangling foot hanging over the edge of the desk. “Go enjoy your lives!
”

  “And what about you?” Emma asks.

  “What about me?”

  “There’s a meet-up next Thursday. You should come.”

  “What? The Hackers Anonymous meet-up?” I ask. “No thanks. Too ‘Guy Fawkes mask’ for me.”

  Taylor scoffs. “Oh, get over yourself and go. She’s been asking you for months.”

  I suck in a swift breath of air. It wouldn’t be the worst idea. I rarely leave this office anymore, and it probably couldn’t hurt to see something outside these four walls. Even my own apartment is neglected. What would it matter to neglect it for one more night?

  “Alright, alright,” I concede. “Shoot me the info. I’ll be there.”

  Emma lets out a squeal, bunching both fists close to her face. “I’ll remind you every single day next week.”

  “Stellar,” I deadpan, chuckling when she punches the air in victory. “I’m sure I won’t forget. Now go home.”

  I turn to look out the window as if to end the conversation without any further ifs, ands, or buts, and Emma accepts it—though, it probably has more to do with her getting the grumpy boss out.

  Our office windows look over a busy city street with too much honking and the distant sounds of construction that never seems to be complete. Although I pass a couple in-progress sites on my walk to work, I never seem to have the time to explore what the new builds transform into.

  I’ve lived in New York my whole life, only moving into the city from the suburbs a few years ago, but exploration has never been my strong suit. I spent my childhood in the neighborhood library, and since settling here, it’s a constant commute from my apartment to the office and back again. I’m just barely a native.

  “Don’t get too hung up on the mysterious blonde woman, alright?” Taylor says, pulling on her bookbag. Just when I had stopped thinking about Fran, she’s brought up her again.

  When I look at Taylor, her mouth is tilted to the side, reminiscent of Emma’s signature puppy look. Taylor is undeniably a softie when she wants to be. “There are other fish in the sea. Or…data in the code?”

  “Decimals in Pi!” calls Emma, winding her charging cable into her bag.