Page 10 of Man Flu

I wave her off with a snort that bellows deep within my throat. “Oh, I am finer than fine.”

“I heard about the divorce.” She just dives right in. It’s been a year, but I was so good at hiding the secret that word didn’t spread about Rick and me until a few months ago when Cora started school.

“So, anyway, how is Celli enjoying first grade?” I abruptly change the subject.

“She’s just great. All straight A’s, captain of her soccer team, and student president. I couldn’t be prouder.”

Yeah, they don’t have captains in soccer at this age, nor do they have student presidents. Oh, and I’m almost positive a check mark on paper does not equal an A, but what do I know? “Wow, you must be so proud,” I coo, placing my hand on her shoulder.

Her smile widens, but just enough that I can tell it’s fake. “Can I help the next person in line?” Thank you, barista chick.

“Oh, and by the way, my daughter, you know, Cora, she can now wipe her own butt after she goes number two. I’m really proud of my little girl, so I totally get the pride thing.” She looks at me like I’m speaking a different language and turns to face the barista. As if I can’t see her, she twirls her finger beside her ear, calling me crazy without saying the word out loud.

Dumbass.

Breathe in, two, three, four. Breathe out, two, three, four. I hate people. All people.

“Good morning, Hannah,” the barista says. I still can’t seem to remember her name. I see her name tag each time I’m in here, but it just doesn’t stick with me for some reason. “A large coffee with a shot of espresso, hold the froth?” I can’t remember her name, but she remembers my order.

“You’re an angel. Yes, to the coffee,” I tell the woman.

“Ohh, you two know each other?” Gill pipes in as she waits for her green smoothie with the calories and carbs on the side.

“Hannah is a frequent customer,” the barista says.

“I don’t know how you do it,” Gill says. “A single mom with a career. And you still manage to …,” she looks me up and down, “match your clothes every day.” That wasn’t just a ditz comment. She’s a bitch.

“Yup and I brush my own teeth and put my shoes on the right feet too. I’m moving up in the world,” I laugh and squint one eye at her. What nerve.

The barista places my coffee up on the counter first, and I want to hug her for doing so, but I need to get the hell out of here before I run into someone else I don’t want to see.

“Um, I actually placed my order before her, so …,” Gill says as I open the door to leave. “Is your manager around?”

Holy crap, get a freaking life.

Back in the van I go, but at least I have my coffee. Oh, and I mindfully put a shirt on this morning that won’t tear. I’m calling today a win.

I arrive at the office ten minutes early and take the stairs instead of the elevator because you know, it’s that kind of day.

The office is fairly empty, and it’s music to my ears. Maybe I can get through my pile of emails before anyone asks me for something this morning. Wouldn’t that be something?

I make the long journey through the row of cubes and head right for my office, finding the Pepto-colored walls calling my name.

“Hannah?” I hear. I take another sip of my coffee and spin around to see where the voice came from, finding Logan at his desk. Dammit. Why? He’s wearing dark jeans today, a white fitted, button-down shirt, suede penny-loafer boots, and that cologne that was burnt into my nose for hours yesterday. For someone his age, he still has thick hair, which is slightly coifed. His square jaw shows some of his age, as well as the very fine lines angling outward from his deep-set, topaz blue eyes. “You’re … uh, dripping over there.” His voice snaps me out of my awkward, analyzing stare, and I find that I am, in fact, dribbling coffee onto the cheap Berber carpeting.

I right the cup. “Oh, crap. Sorry, I feel like a zombie this morning.”

“I bet. Were you up partying all night with your daughter?” he asks through laughter.

All I hear is: Your life must consist of cooking, cleaning, and homework. You’re so cool, the best reason I can come up with for you to be tired is that you were probably partying with your five-year-old, instead of having any sort of real life.

“That pretty much sums it up,” I say, tapping my coffee cup into the air. “I hope your night was a little more exciting.”

Logan leans back into his chair and rests his hands behind his neck, which happens to highlight rippled muscles along his biceps. “Not even a little bit. My sister is staying with me until tomorrow, and she’s a slob. She’s loud, annoying, and needs to go back home.”

“Sounds like my daughter,” I confess.

“She’s twenty-eight going on five, so I can see how it might sound that way.”