There isn’t a rule against dating co-workers here.
My grandfather made sure of that, because my grandmother, Maureen, was one of the first female salespeople for the firm and they met here, fell in love, and—the rest is history. I wouldn’t be here if he’d implemented a non-fraternization policy.
I swivel in my chair and gaze at Dale.
He fidgets.
I’d peg him at around thirty, definitely on the younger side. Playful and carefree, Dale is ridiculously good at his job. He’s also hilarious, and generous, and brings in treats during the holidays and his birthday.
For the longest time, I thought he might bat for the other team, but as his face gets pink, I have to wonder.
Does Dale…
Is he…
…into me?
I study him with renewed interest, nodding as he chatters on about his weekend, casually giving him a once-over. Chest is decent, pecs visible through his cotton dress shirt. Okay arms. His hands are a bit lacking in the masculinity department, but it’s not like he lives in the country and can chop wood in his free time. He’s not out laying bricks for a living; he’s selling ad content and creating copy, for heaven’s sake.
I can’t fault him for that, but I also don’t think I’d bang him.
Yeah, no—Dale is too nice.
Is that even a thing?
Too nice—who’s ever heard of such a thing?
It’s not that I want to date a dickhead, but a little bit of bite never hurt a girl. Unless the guy is biting her bits—huge difference.
The thought makes me tingle downtown, and I mentally locate the vibrator I have stashed in my bedside drawer. Remind myself to stop for batteries on the way home.
Self-care and all that jazz.
Dale is still talking when I dig through my desk and pull out a steno pad—contraband from my grandpa’s office. He’s old-school and keeps office supplies in his desk, too, and I find myself stealing them from time to time. Rather than the high gloss company stationary in the supply room, I prefer the throwback yellow notepads Gramps keeps in his drawer.
If he notices them missing, he hasn’t mentioned it.
Come to think if it, the old coot probably has me stealing them on camera.
He isn’t here often—he retired years ago—but he does like to haunt the place now and again by taking his lunch in his office and giving the staff a stroke with his presence. To me, he’s just Grandpa. To everyone else, he’s one of the most powerful men in the city.
My dad is, too, I suppose, though he’s on the finance end of things. I rarely see him.
“Anyway,” Dale is saying, wrapping up with, “We usually go out after work on Wednesdays if you want to come.”
“For happy hour?”
“Yeah, I guess?”
“Tonight?”
“Yes.” Dale laughs nervously, toying with the buttons on his cuffs. The upturned fabric is a different pattern than the pink check; it’s a bold, floral print and the perfect contrast.
I like it.
I like him—he’s a nice guy. I just wish I felt more downstairs, because it’s not easy meeting someone in this town.
“Sure. That sounds good. When I’m done for the day, I’ll join y’all at the bar.”
Dale rises. “Cool. It’s right around the block, so you can walk there then take a cab home.”
“Sounds good!”
It takes me hours of going back and forth to complete this project I have Bambi working on. Another several conversations with other team members in the art department working on a few layouts for me. All in all, a very productive day.
I meet Dale and a few people from my team at a bar they’ve chosen, a dark throwback called The Basement that feels like more of a guys’ club than a normal hangout, but beggars can’t be choosers and I need the night out.
To network and socialize.
I won’t bore you with all the details, but the drinks flow like water. One—okay, two vodka sodas in and I’m laughing hysterically at Dale, two guys from accounting, two more from graphics, and one from our entertainment division, sharing pieces of myself and building a few friendships. I can feel them growing as I hug everyone before taking my leave.
Taking my leave? Jeez.
I snort as I nod in greeting at the doorman of my building, giggling to myself because I sound ancient. What self-respecting twenty-four-year-old says ‘taking my leave’?
Ugh.
Chuckling again because I’m buzzed and feeling good, I stand rigidly at the bank of elevators; there are twenty-three floors in this building and I live on the twentieth. Not too shabby for my first apartment, and I giddily anticipate the ride.
I doubt there’ll be a day where I don’t pinch myself for being so lucky.
Fine. Luck has nothing to do with it—I work my ass off and every living expense comes out of my own pocket.
A hiccup escapes my lips and I press three fingers to my mouth. Crap. I hate the hiccups; they linger for so long.
Another erupts as a guy bursts through the revolving door, balancing a box that, although it doesn’t look heavy, appears loaded down with random odds and ends. Gadgets? I can’t tell from here, but “Come on, come on” leaves my mouth, willing the elevator to speed things up so I don’t have to humiliate myself by being trapped with this gorgeous specimen of a man.
I’ve seen this guy around, and I don’t want the first time I meet him to be in an elevator! When I’m drunk, for heaven’s sake, cheeks and nose probably cherry red.
Cue another tipsy hiccup.
And another…
He’s heading straight toward me. Okay, maybe not toward me specifically, but toward the elevator car, and I hold my breath as the electronics think, silently praying the doors will close before he reaches me.
“Hold the door please!” he calls out, box now somehow balanced on one hand like he’s a server at a restaurant, other one outstretched, beseeching me with an open palm. As if he’s about to force the door to remain open with the sheer force of thin air and a prayer. “Fuck!”
The box teeters and he careens slightly to the left. Right. A pantomime of a balancing act.
“Sorry?” Drunk me doesn’t feel guilty in the slightest about not pressing the button to hold the door for him. Sober me? She’ll regret it in the morning.
I shrug as if helpless and hard of hearing, cupping a hand over my right ear. “Say again?”
Hiccup.
He knows damn well I can hear him if his eyebrows shooting into his hairline are any indication. He’s genuinely shocked I’m blowing him off. Well surprise, surprise, pal, I’m shocked at myself, too—I’m normally so well mannered!
A flash of irritation mars his brow.
Truthfully, I’m ordinarily a really nice person—too nice, my friends have said. My nan calls me a pushover who needs to grow a pair of lady balls, preferably a bigger set than she has.
“Oh no!” I peek through the closing steel doors, the corners of my mouth shifting down into a grimace. “Shoot! I can’t… Nooooo!” My voice mimics a sound like I’m fading into obscurity, gets quieter as the guy disappears, an incredulous expression slashing his handsome features.
“I’m melting!” Drunk me adds more drama for good measure, as if I wasn’t acting ridiculously immature enough. The doors are two inches from closing. I snap my fingers in front of the diminishing crack between them and add a sassy wink. “So close. Almost made it.”