“But wait. This is even better.” Nigel stretches out an arm and grabs a pair of blue socks. A woman lolls on a bench, her nose in a book. The caption says, Fuck off, I’m reading.
I grin. “Brilliant.”
“And speaking of reading . . .” He proceeds to tell me about a mystery he tracked down for me, a series that’s becoming popular in America. Then he reaches below the counter, pulls out the book, and slaps it down on the wood. “Just for you.” Before I can reach for it, Nigel snatches the novel back and clutches it to his chest. “But only if you say something nice about me.”
I glare at him. “Why do you make this so bloody difficult?”
“It’s like a game. When I lose interest in Sudoku, I can wind you up for amusement.”
“Glad to be of service.” Then I gird myself, taking a deep, fueling breath. “You’re the . . . best?” I venture, my brow knit, hoping that hit the mark.
Nigel smacks a palm on the counter. “That was hard for you, wasn’t it?”
“Like pulling teeth.” I wince. “Or like finding out the woman you want is your new co-worker.”
“Ouch. That’s terrible. But office romance is a thing, isn’t it?”
“For people who don’t give a fuck about their jobs,” I reply. That’s why I haven’t called Jo since Tuesday night. It felt too natural, too easy to talk to her after work. I can’t let her become a habit when there’s so much at stake.
My job—the thing I need most for sanity.
“Fair point,” Nigel says with a nod. “Best not to mess around where you work.”
“Exactly.”
I buy the book and return to the office.
As the day winds down, I check the clock more frequently. The time for the gallery event is drawing closer. I pop into the men’s room, brush my teeth, adjust my shirt, run my fingers through my hair.
It’s important to look good for work events. And fresh breath is critical for all occasions.
I return to my office, stealing another glance at the time. Fifteen more minutes, and we’ll all be leaving. I have half a mind to text Jude and ask if it’s normal to be so wound up about an evening out with your co-workers.
But I don’t need to ask anyone, really. I know this feeling. I’ve felt it before, ages ago—the thrill of anticipation.
I tell my feet to stay firmly planted. There’s nothing to anticipate. Tonight isn’t the start of a new romance.
Still, my pulse beats faster.
Then, I come back to reality without a bit of effort when Emily pops her head around the door, rapping her knuckles on it. “Knock, knock.”
“Come in, of course,” I say.
Be cheery. Be upbeat.
I flash her a grin, then I do something I never pictured at all. I ask a question that has no bearing on the workplace. “Any plans this weekend?”
Her gray eyes twinkle. Emily seems to crave this kind of interaction, I’m learning.
“Yes, my wife and I are going to a crafts fair on Saturday near Leadenhall Market. Should be fun. I’ll see if I can restrain her from buying every trendy necklace she sees.”
“Good luck with that.” I think that’s the sort of thing one says. Maybe I should find a book on small talk in the workplace. I can post reminders of what to ask co-workers.
“And thank you for asking,” Emily says, and I mentally pat myself on the back. “How’s everything with Josephine this week?”
Would be better if she didn’t work with me. So much better, because then I could take her out like I want to. Take her on a tour of literary London. Show her Keats House and the Globe Theatre, for starters.
“Fantastic,” I say. It’s both a lie and the truth.
Yes, Jo is bright and energetic and bursting with ideas.
And she’s also temptation made flesh.
“She’s great, isn’t she? I just don’t know how I’m going to pick between the two of you for the VP post.” Emily gives a breezy shrug. “But I like difficult choices. Keeps me on my toes.”
Then she sails away, and I stand there, sucker-punched.
Great. Fucking great.
Jo and I are co-captains, and now we’re chasing the same job.
The indecisive candlemaker got one thing right.
Fuck this shit.
There’s no moment on the tube ride to the gallery to casually mention the job situation with Jo. Plus, Riya and Freddy are conversational chefs, and they pepper Jo with questions as the train weaves underground.
Have you been to the Tower of London?
Ooh, you must get a curry at The Jewel.
The best shopping is just off Notting Hill.
I bite my tongue, even though those sites are nothing like the ones I would choose if I were introducing her to London.
Once we reach the gallery, throngs of colleagues and clients surround us, and I have to say hello, even though I’m desperate to grab a second alone with her.