The hot prickle behind my eyes warns me I’m about thirty seconds away from committing the unforgivable sin of crying in front of Craig. I blink furiously, fighting it back.
What kills me is the double standard. When Roy submits something Craig doesn’t like, he gets a matey chat about football scores and gentle suggestions for “tweaking the approach.” When I do it, I get humiliated in front of everyone.
“No problem,” I say.
He raps his knuckles on my desk. “Send it over ASAP.”
Then he spots the muffin bag. Pauses. Stares at it.
“Would you like one?” I ask.
He grunts, plucks the biggest muffin like he’s doingmea favor, tears the top off caveman-style, and manages to scatter crumbs across my keyboard, mouse, and half my paperwork. Blueberry shrapnel everywhere.
Muffin in hand, he struts back to his office.
Unbelievable.
I stare at the wreckage on my desk. Tiny purple-stained reminders of my complete inability to say no.
Roy spins around in his chair. He doesn’t say anything at first. Just gives me that look he does when he’s witnessed another Craig incident.
“That went brilliantly,” he says.
I exhale slowly, eyes locked on my screen. “It’s fine.”
“You’ve got to stop letting that jerk walk all over you.”
“I know,” I say automatically.
But knowing and doing are two different skill sets, and I’ve only mastered the first one.
Roy leans in, lowering his voice. “You know what Craig’s problem is?”
“Besides not knowing how to turn on a computer without calling IT, even though heisIT?”
He smirks. “Small-dick energy. Classic case.”
“Please don’t make me picture Craig’s penis.” I groan, dropping my head into my hands. “I’m already having a terrible day.”
“I’m serious. You’re twenty-five, attractive, and way smarter than him. His fragile ego can’t handle it. In his messed-up mind, you should look pretty while he explains what a mouse is. But instead, the other developers come to you when their code breaks. They’re supposed to worship his ‘technical expertise,’ not ask the young woman who actually knows her stuff.”
A tired laugh slips out. “Right. I should feel honored to get his sacred pearls of wisdom.” I sigh, staring at the report. “I need to redo this. Again.”
My stomach growls ominously. The muffins are right there, but just looking at them makes me queasy.
Craig’s officially ruined muffins for me. That feels like a new low.
I sweep the crumbs off my keyboard and start rewriting his document. I send it over with a polite note about the “clarifications,” then lean back, ready to—if not relax—at least unclench slightly.
One precious moment of relief. That’s all I get before Patrick strides into our department, mid-phone conversation.
Fuck.
Life would be so much easier if I could see him as just “the boss” or “Jake’s mate” instead of… whatever catastrophic hormonal implosion he triggers.
But no. Every single time he walks into a room, ever since I was sixteen and he turned up at our house with Jake, I turn into this awkward, stuttering mess.
He was intimidating even back then. A proper twenty-six-year-old man, while I was still trying to figure out how to be a functional human being.
