Simmons laughs. “Atta boy. Be sure to let me know if my plan works.” He walks away laughing. Something tells me if I fail at this, he’ll never let me live it down.
SEVEN
KELSEY
This morning, on my way to work, I stop at one of the cafés I pass by daily. I’m not the type of person who splurges because, let’s be honest, editors aren’t pulling in the big bucks, but sometimes it’s nice to be a little indulgent. I’m not ashamed to admit I live on a budget. It’s necessary to watch what I spend. My biggest expenditure right now is my apartment. It’s a little over my budget, but it’s close to work as well as the grocery store and any entertainment I might want to treat myself to.
Today, I’ve decided to try one of these amazing chocolate croissants I’ve heard about from my coworkers. As soon as I’m at the door I see Russ Curry, someone who works with me, is there.
“Good morning,” he says as he opens the door. “Fancy meeting you here.” Russ heads up the non-fiction department and is always telling us about the outlandish stories he receives. He’s the one who raves about this place.
“Morning,” I say in return, and walk ahead of him. “Can I get your coffee this morning?” I ask, knowing he won’t take me up on the offer. Russ is old-fashioned. At least, that’s what he tells us all in the office. He is about twenty years older than most of us, divorced, and doesn’t have any children. Russ never leaves the office before five and is normally the first one in. Basha has told me he’s always invited to join the team at after-work drinks, but rarely meets up with anyone outside of work.
“Of course not,” he says with a chuckle. “But I’ll happily get your breakfast.”
“You don’t have to do that, Russ.”
He smiles kindly. “I’m fully aware, but I insist.”
I nod because there’s no point in arguing with him. The last thing I want to do is hurt his feelings or make it seem like I don’t care or appreciate his gesture. We stand in line for an excess of ten minutes and then wait just as long while our order is made.
“I normally order ahead,” he tells me while we stand off to the side and wait for the barista to yell out our names. “But I was running late this morning.”
“Everything okay?”
He nods. “I watched the game yesterday and put off the edit I wanted to finish. I ended up going to bed late.”
“What game?”
“The Pioneers. They played yesterday.”
Oh, crap.
“Oh, no.” Dread fills my heart.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I say as I shake my head. I messed up, but Russ doesn’t need to know about my blunder. Finally, we hear our names, grab our coffee and croissants, and head out the door. My thoughts are on Alex and how he invited me to his game. I had every intention of going. But I thought the game was this coming Sunday and not yesterday. This could explain why I didn’t hear from him yesterday.
You also didn’t text him.
I like Alex. And the past few days with him have been fun. He shocked me when he kissed me over dessert, and again when he walked me to my door. I think he wanted to come in, but I’m hesitant to get involved with him after everything I’ve read online. It’s refreshing that Alex doesn’t bad mouth his ex. But it also makes me wonder if they’re truly done with each other.
Russ and I make small talk on our way to work, mostly about upcoming projects and the weather. Unlike the dreariness of last week, this week is beautiful. The sun shines, and while still chilly, it’s a pleasant reprieve from the gray skies.
Inside, and after a quick elevator ride, I head to the breakroom to put my lunch away. At my desk, I sit down and wait for my emails to load. I spent my weekend editing the football manuscript and left myself a bunch of notes—things I need to ask Alex. Of course, now that I stood him up, he may not be willing to talk to me about anything. I hope I’m wrong though.
It’s almost lunchtime when Robin Boyce, our front-end receptionist, calls me. The dim ringing of my phone catches me off guard. No one has our numbers, again because of the open-concept layout. It’s impossible to talk on the phone without disrupting people, and we prefer to do business via email. Leaving a paper trail is necessary, especially for negotiations.
“Hello?” I cover the receiver and mouth with my hand to muffle my voice.
“Hi, Kelsey. There’s a Mr. Moore here to see you.” Robin is incredibly formal and takes her job seriously. According to her, she wants people who visit (which isn’t often) to respect Willamette Publishing, and by asking their last name, it shows they’re respecting each other.
“Oh . . . um,” I stammer, trying to come up with the right words. “I’ll be out there in a minute.” After hanging up, I take a couple of deep breaths and run through any scenario that might bring him here. I know for a fact we don’t have a lunch date or meeting, and I was only just thinking about reaching out to discuss some questions—and apologize for not attending the game.
On my way to the front, I brush any lint off my clothes and try not to fidget. Alex makes me nervous, and it’s because I like him.
Alex’s presence catches me off guard. He’s a looming feature in our small foyer. His back is facing me, which gives me a long moment to take him in. He’s not dressed as I would expect for a usual Monday afternoon and is wearing slacks and a peacoat. In my mind, I see him in joggers or those tight pants he wears for the game. Although, the thought of him walking around town in those pants is utterly ridiculous. Still, the images make me chuckle.
He hears me approach and turns. The smile he gives me lights up his entire face and makes my heart beat faster. “Kelsey.” Alex steps toward me, but before I can say anything, my entire team of coworkers flock the entryway.
The chorus of “Oh my Gods,” and “Dude, you’re Alex Moore,” (as if he didn’t know who he was) fills the room. Before I can even register what’s happening, Alex is posing for selfies, signing autographs, and talking football with Jonathan. Honestly, I’m surprised at how fangirlish the owner is being right now.
“Wow, he’s handsome,” Basha says next to me. She holds her phone up for me to see the picture she took with Alex. “You never see them dressed up like this, at least in person.”
“No, how do you see ‘them’ dressed?” I emphasize “them” even though I know she’s talking about football players or maybe even all our local athletes.
“In tight pants, usually bent over.”
“Basha!”
She shrugs. “It’s the truth. Didn’t you watch any of the games yesterday?”
I shake my head. “No, I forgot.” It’s a lame excuse, but the truth.
“We should go to a game,” she says, and I agree. “They’re a lot of fun, and last year the team won the Super Bowl.”
“The what?”
Basha’s eyes widen. “Honey, you need to spend some serious sports time with that man right there. By the looks of it, he brought you lunch.” She motions toward the small sofa near Alex where a bag sits. “Ask him about the Super Bowl. If anything, for research purposes.”