Page 22 of This is a Kissing Book

The words are like typewriter keys striking paper, leaving behind ink that cannot be deleted by the simple pressing of the backspace button. My heart stops, restarts, then tries to pound its way out of my chest.

Those are fighting words, and we both know it.

Instead of backing down or apologizing, I square my shoulders and meet his gaze dead-on.

And wouldn’t you know it, the guy’s lips quirk, and he says, “Bite you? Gladly.”

The silence that follows is so charged I’m surprised the smoke alarm doesn’t go off, telling us to evacuate the building.

Instead, I skedaddle to my desk. It’s only when I’m seated that I realize I’m trembling and the full weight of what just happened hits me. I just told my boss—possibly the son of the Meridian CEO—to bite me. In a tone that could generously be described as flirtatious and accurately be labeled as career suicide.

What have I done?

I’m convinced I’ll be fired before the end of the day. I refresh the company app. Keep my email inbox updated. But I’m still employed when I ride the Blue Line to my studio apartment.

My phone buzzes with a text from my mom just as I’m fishing my keys out of my bag. After greetings that include a vague “work is fine” recap, she asks if I’ll be able to make it to her and Brad the Dad’s anniversary dinner in September.

I’m about to respond when Screechy and Grumbly—the couple next door—start their nightly argument through our paper-thin walls. Tonight’s topic appears to be a criticism of how to best dispense toothpaste—from the bottom of the tube, obviously. One of them presses from the middle, sending the bulk of the paste in the wrong direction.

I consider telling Mom about Linc Sullivan, the disaster that is my professional life, and the fact that I may have just flirted my way out of employment. Instead, I go with a promise to try to make it home for the anniversary party.

After we end the call, I’m settling in with leftover pizza and my streaming queue when my phone buzzes with a notification from the company app. My blood freezes when I see the sender: L. Sullivan.

This is it. I’m unemployed. I read the message.

L. Sullivan: Need you to review the Fairfax Collection files tonight. Send. notes. Meeting with a client first thing Monday morning.

Frozen, I try to ignore the text bubble as my pizza grows cold in my lap. The Fairfax Collection is in a different department. A Friday night work request sent via the company app is verboten.

This is either a power trip of epic proportions or he’s testing to see how far he can push me before I break. Maybe he wants me to quit. Perhaps he’s a sucker for finding his stapler jiggling in a dome of gelatin.

I’m not above petty pranks.

The man brings out the worst in me. The sarcastic, rebellious side that got me in trouble throughout high school and college. The part of me that my mother gently referred to as “spirited” and my professors called “challenging.”

I type and delete at least four responses, ranging from acquiescence to suggestions about where he can file his request. Finally, I just get to work.

After working all day Saturday and after church the following day, I meet Oly for our standing monthly brunch at Toast, a hipster joint that takes the concept of avocado toast and elevates it to an art form.

I order the “Renaissance” (multigrain bread with ricotta, honey, and fresh berries). Oly goes with her usual “Minimalist” (butter and sea salt, because she claims it lets her taste the bread’s true essence).

“You look tired,” she says as we sip our jumbo lattes—you could swim in the mugs they have here.

“Good morning to you, too.” She’s not wrong. I hope the caffeine is fast-acting.

Oly has been my best friend since college, back when we used to spend entire weekends sharing clothes and staying up until what she called the wee hours, analyzing every interaction we’d had with whatever guy had caught our attention that week. Things are different now that she’s married. I’m happy for her, but I miss our marathon debrief sessions.

After we get our food, I pop a raspberry into my mouth.

She says, “Talk to me.”

I tell her about the job change, about Linc and his impossible demands, and the way he makes me feel like I’m constantly on the verge of saying something I’ll regret—or outright running my mouth. I conclude with the weekend work request, er, demand.

Her nostrils flare, righteously angry on my behalf. “The absolute nerve of some people.”

“Right? And the worst part is, he’s …” I struggle for the right words.

She inclines her head. “Attractive?”