Unwrapping Holly

And Lincoln…

Lincoln had apparently texted me before I even arrived home. With any other guy that might’ve seemed a bit stalkerish. But with him it was the sweetest, most gentlemanly of gestures:

Just so you know, it took me fifteen

minutes to put my desk back together

again! (It was well worth it though)

Couch or bed next time for sure.

Be ready…

Each of the messages had made me smile in equal but different ways. Confidence level soaring, I’d showered and slipped quickly into bed… still reeling from the most eventful weekend in my life — sexual or otherwise.

Monday morning found me sleepy, happy, and sore. It was a strange and delirious combo, but one that delivered me over the two bus routes and five extra blocks to arrive at my office.

Once there I took the garage entrance, not caring who I’d run into. My brain argued that it was the shortest possible route, overruling my heart so I could arrive at my desk just that much sooner.

I was still waiting for the elevators when my car drove by.

At first, I didn’t recognize it. At least not without me in it. But then I did a double-take, just in time to see the long blonde ponytail streaming out from behind the silhouette of the driver’s head.

What the fuck?

My car — my beloved little car! — raced up the ramp and disappeared into the next level. The elevator doors opened and closed without me taking a single step forward, that’s how miffed I was to see my own vehicle speed past.

That bastard!

I stood there shaking with rage, still clenching my yellow Metro card. Then the doors opened again, and this time I punched the eighteenth floor.

Up until now I’d been riding high — filled with a giddy, welcome energy that was sailing me through the day. Right now however, my mood had been spoiled.

Malcolm…

I’d been avoiding him for too long. Making things too easy for him. But not now. Not after—

“Oh! Hey…”

He was staring me in the face, five steps after the elevator doors opened. The expression he wore was slack-jawed surprise.

“Holly…”

It wasn’t a good look, especially on him. Malcolm looked somehow smaller than I remembered him. Paler and more uncertain, too.

“Wh—What are you—”

“Where is she?”

His eye twitched — one of his more annoying tells. It happened whenever he was trying to think up a lie, or make up an excuse. Come to think of it, all of his excuses were cataclysmically lame.

“Malcolm, what the fuck?” I demanded. “My car just drove past me in the parking garage.”

He swallowed dryly. “So?”

“So I’ve been taking the bus, Malcolm! The bus and the subway! Sometimes even a cab or an Uber, when I’m running late.” I put one hand on my hip. “I’ve been huffing it all the way here on foot each morning, and my car is still on the fucking road?”

His eyes narrowed — another lame tell. He pulled this one whenever he was about to lecture me or correct me on something.