The drive downtown is a blessed respite, the equivalent of collapsing on the grass after a half-marathon. I’ve never run one, but based on the YouTube videos, I’m pretty sure that description is accurate.
The sun blinds me as I step out of the parking garage, a sheet of white glare ricocheting off the tower across Seventeenth and straight onto my retinas. Denver switched from summer to fall overnight, it seems, and I didn’t get the memo. I wrap my arms around myself to keep warm as I walk down the block, then shoulder my tote and weave into the stream of suits, backpacks, and athleisure making its way toward the revolving doors of our building.
The lobby smells like eucalyptus and printer toner, which feels poetic given we manufacture the second and my stress levels this morning require the first. Steel columns, bright planters, a mosaic of commuters’ reflections in the polished floor. This is the stage set I walk onto every weekday.
My calves whimper as the elevator climbs. I probably shouldn’t have worn any heels given the situation, but flats make my legs look like I share genetics with a munchkin cat. Two floors up I’m already bargaining with my quads.I’ll give you protein if you get me to the breakroom without sounding like a haunted accordion.
I step off the elevator and angle for Sam’s office before retrieving coffee when I almost collide with six feet of warm, button-up, rolled-sleeve competence and a biodegradable cup.
Garrett.
Hold me, please,is my brain’s immediate reaction, and I stumble back as he emerges from the breakroom. The hall is wide and yet I became a Roomba heading for the only obstacle.No. That is not what we’re doing.I mentally slap my wrist.
His coffee is a pale, muddy brown. Garrett likes a little brew with his oat milk. His cuffs have a pink diamond pattern today, and his hair shines from whatever product he uses. With the scruff on his jaw, he looks like a 2018 Jake Gyllenhal.
“Hey, Alecia.” He smiles, which is dangerous for my cardiovascular system. “Saw your name on the pickleball night list.”
Garrett is talking to me. He saw my name on the list.Dialogue. Response. Be a functioning human, Alecia.“Yeah!” I squeak while grasping my purse strap like a parachute handle. “You play?”
Do not let on you know exactly which days he plays each week, that you’ve memorized his brand of bag, and looked up the paddle he uses online.
Garrett chuckles. “I do. You’re into it, too?”
“Correct. It’s a fun sport. I don’t—I mean, I dabble.” I flail a hand, and my tote slides farther down my shoulder.Fun sport?That’s more basic than saying I like maple doughnuts.
He shifts his weight, amused. “Dabbling’s a start.” Garrett’s eyes are hazel. I hadn’t ever noticed that before.
“I used to play tennis. So. There’s overlap.”
His eyebrows tick up. “Footwork transfer pretty well?”
I nod, though I have no idea if that’s true since all I did yesterday was stand close to the net and try to have “gentle hands.”
His lips twitch, and he taps his fingers on his cup. “Well, I guess I’ll see you tomorrow.”
“You sure will!” I sound like Harry Caray. Or at least Will Ferrell’s depiction of him.
Garrett walks away, but I stand there for a beat, replaying every syllable with forensic precision. I just had a conversation with Garrett Davis. A real conversation, not about clients or projects at work.
I pivot toward Sam’s office and make a beeline. When I enter, she’s at her desk, glasses perched halfway down her nose, a high bun that solidifies her sexy librarian look. The walls of her officeare a collage of color swatches and art she bought in Europe. Sam is who I want to be when I grow up.
“On a scale from one to I-can’t-sit-on-the-toilet, how are your glutes?” she says without looking up.
“It’s like you’re living in my brain.” I ease myself into the egg chair, making my arms do most of the work. “Also, Garrett just ambushed me in the hall.”
Her head snaps up. “What?”
“Okay, ambushed is a strong word. He stood there with his coffee while I attempted to run him over, then stumbled over every word I said and acquired a nervous system disorder. But hey, we spoke more than two sentences!” I bite my knuckle for effect.
She buys in, leaning over her desk and propping her head in her hands. “And?”
“He saw my name on the pickleball list for Friday. I said I played.”
Sam winces, and I backtrack.
“No, I didn’t oversell my skills or anything. I tempered expectations.”
We grin at each other, the air between us filling with the fizz of excitement that always comes from doing something naughty.
