Hmm, I bet he is. Don’t imagine his muscles rippling while he lugs bricks around topless. Don’t. Too late.
I’m never late for work.
He adds a winky face to the end of his text.
Unlike me.
Hey, you said it, not me.
You were thinking it.
He sends me an emote with a halo. I reply with one with devil horns.
How late are you going to be?
Not very, unless the bus gets stuck in traffic. I’ve probably just jinxed myself.
I’ll cross my fingers for a traffic-free journey.
Why does he have to be so sweet?
Thank you.
I type out a message. Delete it, and then type it out again. I hit send before I can second-guess myself a second time. Third-guess. Is that a thing?
Who are you taking to the charity ball?
My parents. Mum loves getting dressed up. Dad will be grumpy about it, but he’ll have fun once he gets there.
Does that mean he’s single?
He lives in a different city. It doesn’t matter if he’s single, married, or has a harem.
My bus is here, and you’d better get back to work.
Yes, boss.
I’d rather call him Boss. Or Sir. I shiver.
I get on the bus, show the driver my prepaid pass, and find somewhere to sit on the top deck. Kyle has sent me another text.
I hope you don’t get into trouble for being late.
I’ll make the time up by taking a shorter lunch break.
Chat later?
You bet.
I have a stupid grin for the rest of the journey to work.
* * *
“You’re just in time,” Margaret says when I arrive.
“For what?”
“All-hands meeting in the boardroom.” She ushers me in that direction.
