“Right.” It’s all I can think to say. My mind is spinning with how to get out of this.
“Great. We’ll see you both there and get this wrapped up. It’ll be a Valentine’s Day treat,” he says.
We say our pleasantries and leave the call as a pit sinks into my stomach. Tomorrow is Valentine’s Day?
I have never taken a date out on Valentine’s Day. Ever. It gives the woman the impression that things are serious between us. In other words, the wrong impression.
I doomscroll through my contact list, looking for someone who might understand the arrangement and be willing to play along. Every name I pass makes the growing uneasiness worsen.
When I finally pick my head up from my phone, I realize it’s dark outside. The office is quiet as I open my door for the first time in hours to find the place deserted. The pit in my stomach has grown into a full-blown sinkhole. Not one viable option came to me in my entire list, especially not for a last-minute Valentine’s Day dinner request. I stroll toward the office kitchen, preparing to make a protein smoothie that I’m hoping will help fill the emptiness inside me, at least temporarily. Maybe I’ll think better with a full stomach and some nutrients.
I’m almost ready to do the unthinkable… call my mother and ask for her help… when I see one of the office lights still on. A wave of irritation pulses through me. Shutting off the lights at the end of the day isn’t a monumental ask. It’s personal accountability in the most basic of sustainability efforts. I’m sure each one of them manages to shut their lights off in their own homes.
I turn into the office, reaching for the light switch, when I see that someone else is still here. Brielle is sitting behind her desk, a pair of wireless earbuds in. Her chestnut hair is in loose waves draped over her shoulder. Her blue eyes shine in the light of the computer monitor as she feverishly types away.
An idea hits me square in the chest.
My gut is telling me it isn’t a good idea, but right now, it’s the only one I’ve got.
Chapter 4
Brielle
Thehitbeatsof’90s rap pulse through my earbuds. Rui and Erica took off a while ago, along with everyone else, but instead of sitting in the quietness of an empty office, I put some music on and got to work.
I’m getting the hang of CreativEdge’s applications and processes, and the challenges of learning the way it is done here makes the job a little more interesting. Not as interesting as the research I did the other night for Satan, as I’ve gotten in the habit of calling him this week, but at least it’s keeping me engaged.
I haven’t talked to him since Tuesday, when I handed him the research material and left without so much as a thank-you. But he stalks around the office, never stomping but somehow making his presence felt in every space he’s in. He must be allergic to smiling or politeness since I’ve yet to witness a single act of either of these during my entire first week on the job.
A shadow crosses over my screen. I look up and jump clean out of my skin.
Satan… Damian… is standing in front of me, saying something, the scowl on his face creasing his otherwise flawless forehead. I pull the earbuds out of my ears, my music still audible in my hand.
“I’m sorry, what was that?” I ask.
“What are you still doing here? It’s late.”
It is after regular office hours, but I’m killing time before I head home, and I thought spending it at work would be the most productive. Holly’s boyfriend, Jordan, came into town this afternoon to spend the weekend with her. They met online six months ago, and despite the fact that they live on opposite sides of the country, they’ve managed to make a long-distance relationship work. But their time together is often infrequent and too short, meaning that theyreallymake the most of those moments together. I’ve found it’s best for everyone when I stay out of the way as much as possible, even though Holly insists I’m welcome to spend time with them.
Third-wheeling an adorably smitten couple is as nauseating as it sounds.
“Just getting some things buttoned up before the weekend,” I say. “I’m not used to your systems yet, so I’m not as quick as I’d like to be. But don’t worry, I’m a fast learner.” I smile.
“It’s almost 7:00 p.m. on a Friday night. Isn’t your boyfriend wondering where you are?”
“I would need to have a boyfriend for him to wonder about my whereabouts,” I mumble. Clearly not quietly enough as his gaze rakes over me quickly. Almost so quickly that I miss it.
“Honestly, my roommate’s boyfriend is in town, so I’m trying to stay out of the apartment.”
“Not a fan of him?” He quirks one brow, the slight twitch of his lips making it look like he almost wants to smirk.
“It’s not that. I like him. But, like I said, he just got into town… and it’s Valentine’s weekend… so, yeah. I’m giving them some space.”
He seems to contemplate what I said, and I wonder if maybe I said too much.
After a moment’s hesitation, he says, “So, you’ll need to get out of the house tomorrow night, too, then.”
He doesn’t say it like a question, instead stating it like it’s a known fact.
