“Who are they from?” someone asks.
I gently place the flowers upon the edge of my desk, carefully disturbing the cream tissue paper around the edge to pluck out the thick cardstock embedded in between two red roses.
Yours, Blake.
I vaguely hear the oohs and aahs from the women around me, but the sounds are mostly drowned out by the roar of blood in my ears.
It feels like hours pass as I stare at the small card in my hand, thumbing over the embossed lettering, tracing the swirls and curls of Blake’s name, until someone claps loudly, right beside my ear, scaring me half to death.
“Back to work everyone!” Thomas calls, pouring a bucketful of freezing cold water over the moment.
Footsteps scurry as my co-workers return to their cubicles, bowing their head and getting back to work.
I slide back into my chair too, but I don’t immediately boot my computer back up, too busy placing the card back into the flowers without disturbing the petals.
The blistering heat of Thomas’ gaze sears into the side of my head, but I don’t give him the satisfaction of looking at him.
“That includes you too, Miss Becker,” I hear him grit. “Flowery bullshit isn’t an excuse to slack off. I want those reports filled in correctly and on my desk by the end of the day.”
My lips curl into a snarl. “And if I don’t get them finished in time?”
“Then, I guess the two of us will be staying back until you get them finished.”
I can’t repress the shiver that wracks my body this time and knowing Thomas he probably gets a kick out of it.
Blake was right. He is a fucking prick.
Two extra hours.
That’s how long Thomas keeps me behind, pouring over these fucking stupid reports, which I know I filed correctly the first time around, until he finally nods his head and tells me I can go.
Ugh. Dickhead.
I don’t get home until 7:15 p.m., my eyes aching from squinting at the small print of my computer and in desperate need for a large glass of wine.
Discarding my tight pencil skirt and blouse somewhere on my bedroom floor, I throw on an oversized t-shirt, faded withuse, and head into the kitchen. I place the kettle to boil to soften up my cup of noodles and fill the biggest wine glass I own with the last of my rosé.
I carry everything into my bedroom, powering up my phone while I wait for the steam to dissipate from my dinner.
Gulping back my wine, I pull up Blake’s contact, hitting the call icon.
It rings twice, the sound loud and tinny in my otherwise silent apartment, before he picks up.
“Calla?”
“Yeah, it’s me. You okay?”
“I’m fine. You?”
I shrug even though he can’t see me. “Been better. Where are you?”
“Home. What—”
I’m jabbing my thumb into the video chat button before Blake can even finish his sentence.
“On a scale of one to ten, how shit do I look?”
“That’s a trick question,” Blake replies, his smirk appearing in the camera causing my stomach to flip upside down.
