Page 74 of Man Flu

Chapter Twenty-two

On the count of three, hold your breath …

“WHERE ARE YOU GOING? Is it for tomorrow? Do you need help? I’ll come, and we can take my car, okay?” Brielle says while grabbing her coat.

“Uh, I—I don’t need any help with this errand. You should probably see if Logan needs any help with collating the papers he’s printing off.”

Her arm drops to her side, coat and all. “You’re asking me to go help our temp? I knew it. I’m out. This is why you have a temp. You’re trying to replace me. Why wouldn’t you just tell me the truth, and why would you want to replace me with yet another penis around here?”

I reach forward and grab her shoulder. “Will you relax? I’m not trying to replace you. On the contrary, I have recommended you for a promotion, which is why I’ve been weeding through temps.”

“Oh my God,” she says with a gasp. “Are you serious?” You’d think I just told her she won a million dollars. “What’s the position?”

“Marketing Manager 1. I think you have potential … to do a good job.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” She looks entirely too confused to make me think suggesting her for the job was a good decision.

“Did you finish the call list for the expo?” I ask her.

“Actually, yes. When you were out sick last week, I stayed late and finished it up.” Maybe I stand corrected.

“What about the website updates I sent you last week?”

“Done.”

“Well, then I guess I made the right choice,” I tell her as I try to sneak by, attempting to avoid her offer to tag along.

“Wait, I’m still going to come with you.” Did she miss the whole part where I told her to help Logan?

“I’m fine, really. I just need to get this done and come back.”

“Get what done?” she questions.

I close my eyes and scratch my forehead. “Could I please just sneak out for a few minutes?”

Brielle slips her coat on and follows me out the door. “I’m still your assistant, which means whatever you’re doing, I can somehow help, I’m sure.”

Once we’re outside of the office, and in the elevator, I look at her and shake my head. “I’m going to get a quick wax. I’m not sure I need assistance with that.”

“Hell yeah, you do,” she says.

“I’m pretty sure I can walk in and lie down on a table without help.”

“What kind of wax are you getting?”

“A regular one?” I raise a brow at her, wondering why she cares what kind of wax job I’m getting.

“No, I mean, are you getting an all-American bikini touch up, a full bikini, a French wax with a landing strip, a Brazilian wax with a triangle trim, a Brazilian with a deserted island, a love heart, or just a full-blown Hollywood glow?”

I’m staring straight ahead, watching the buttons light up one by one as my body becomes cold. She has to be kidding. There can’t be that many options. The last time I got waxed, I simply requested a bikini wax, but now there are evidently quite a few more options. How could so much have changed during the last ten years of not caring about my hairstyle down yonder? “Um, I hadn’t really thought of it.”

“Well, what do you think Batman likes?”

“Uh—”

“Wait, wait, wait.” She’s waving her hands in front of her face as the elevator doors open. “How did you know about his flat tire unless you guys … I thought you had already rounded those bases … if you know what I mean?” She makes this throaty sound in her voice as she talks about bases as if we’re in high school, or like it’s a secret she’s trying to be inconspicuous about.

“Brielle!” I snap.