“Your coffee, Sir,” I mock as I turn around and start to walk out. If I’m not mistaken, I think I hear a low growl, and then…
“Don’t forget?—”
“The vendors,” I finish for him. “A report will be on your desk within the next hour. Please do let me know if there’s anything else I can do for you.” I leave Ashton looking shell-shocked as I close his door and walk over to my desk.
The next few hours go by in a haze as I run around doing menial tasks for Ashton, all while trying to start my article for the latest issue.The Lanternis published every Friday, so the deadline for articles is the end of the day on Wednesdays. That way, they can be approved by the senior editor and formatted for publication before printing Thursday evening. For this issue, I’m co-writing an article with Kaya, the former food writer who is leaving for a job in Chicago next week. It’s basically just her saying her goodbyes and me introducing myself. She’s already written her half of the article and sent it to me, but I haven’t been able to write a word with Ashton messaging me every fiveseconds. Part-time, my ass. Every single time I go to type, I hear that stupid chime alerting me to a new message.
Ashton: Get Luke Collins on the phone. He wants to start advertising his bike shop with us.
Ashton: I need another coffee. Preferably hot this time.
Ashton: Where are the article pitches I asked for?
Ashton: Never mind. Did you really slide them through the bottom of the door?
Ashton: My coffee isn’t going to get itself, Alexandra.
Ashton: Oh, and there’s a leak in the men’s bathroom.
That last one just came in. I stare at it like it’s going to sprout wings and fly off the screen of my computer. So far, I haven’t responded to any of his messages. I just do, or sometimes conveniently forget to do, whatever he asks. But this one warrants a direct response.
So call a damn plumber.
His next message comes through immediately.
Ashton: I would love to, but that’s not my job. I wish I had hired someone to deal with these sorts of things…
Ashton: Oh yeah, I did.
“Motherfu—” Skylar swings a chair around from a nearby desk and plops down next to me before I can get the word out.
“How is it going?” she asks delicately, as if one wrong move will set me off.
“There’s a leak in the men’s bathroom,” I tell her.
“Oh,” she says.
“Ashton has had me running around the office all day,” I add. “I can’t find time to write my intro piece that’s due tomorrow, and?—”
“Okay, okay. Relax.” Her tone is soothing. “I’ll call the plumber. This happens every few months. The pipes are from the seventies. I practically have him on speed dial.” She smiles, but her joke falls flat.
Then her expression turns serious. “Write your article. I’ll talk to Ash.”
Ash.My stomach plummets at her easy use of that nickname. I’ve heard Emory say it before, but it somehow hurts coming from Skylar. It reminds me that they’ve known each other since they were little. They have a history, and she calls him Ash like it’s the most natural thing in the world. I glance up at Skylar. I was too shocked by everything that happened yesterday to truly appreciate it, but she’s beautiful—like stunningly beautiful. Her long auburn hair is down today, flowing in loose waves around her shoulders. She’s wearing light faded jeans, a white top, and a green blazer that brings out her glittering jade eyes. There’s no way they’ve always been just friends.
Why do you care?
Great question. And now I’m talking to myself. “Thank you,” I manage before she pushes the chair in and walks away.
By the end of the day, I have most of my article written, thanks to Skylar keeping Ashton occupied, although I try not to think about how she does it. I look at the clock. It’s a few minutes past five. I save my work and head to the restroom before I leave. It feels good to pee after holding it in for the lastfew hours. I knew I’d be risking a UTI, but I was in the zone. As I go to open the door to the stall, I hear voices filtering in.
“I’m just saying, I’d let that man spit in my mouth if he wanted to,” someone says. It sounds like Space Buns, a.k.a Cara.
“That sounds like an inside thought,” her friend says. I think her name is Brianna.
“Oh, come on,” she scoffs. “Tell me you wouldn’t let him bend you over his desk and?—”
“Sorry to burst your bubble, ladies, but I heard he has a micropenis,” I say, flinging open the door of the stall dramatically.
