Violet
W hat am I wearing tonight? It sucks that a teasing question from Jude Jenkins, one clearly meant to wind me up and nothing more, haunts me all afternoon. Because I had an outfit in mind for tonight—a silk wrap dress in a misty lavender color, a secret gem that I found in a thrift store last month. But now that he’s asked about it, I’m second guessing everything. Wondering whether Jude Jenkins , of all people, will like that dress.
Whether he’d like to touch it, grazing his fingertips over the silk.
Whether he’ll picture the dress puddled on his bedroom floor.
Gah. Kill me now.
By 3pm, I’ve made an angry little list in my spiral notebook, all outfit ideas for tonight. Nothing feels right, my whole closet is useless, and I can’t focus on my actual work.
I should be brainstorming ideas for that electric car commercial, not wondering how Jude feels about side-boob. If my rival ever discovers this crush, he will tear me to shreds.
As the day wears on, the office gets buzzier. Louder. Everyone’s restless and impatient, willing the hours away, already gossiping about tonight. Laying bets on who will sneak away to hook up; who’ll turn up three hours late and half-buzzed; whether Mr Corbin will ever crack a smile. On days like these, there’s only one pocket of calm in this whole company, and that’s at my friend Lucy’s desk in the Accounts department.
My boots thud against the stairwell steps as I climb, my dress swishing around my legs. Would have been quicker to take the elevator, but I need to burn off some of this antsy energy.
Lucy will know what to do. She’ll say all the right things, and she’ll look at me with endless patience, just like she always does. Yeah.
The Accounts department is equally jittery and loud when I push through the doors, and I hunt down Lucy at her desk in the corner. She’s wearing a huge, boxy pair of noise-canceling headphones, tapping a pen against the frame of her glasses as she stares at her screen.
Spreadsheets. Always spreadsheets.
There are so many printers running on this floor, their hum tickles through my feet.
“Boo.” I tap my friend on the shoulder, smirking when she jumps and spins around. Lucy slides her headphones down to her neck, blinking as she drags the spare chair out for me with her ankle. Her body’s making room for me before her brain has caught up.
“Hey,” she says at last. “Is it manic downstairs too?”
“You bet.”
Over her years working here, Lucy has built up a makeshift wall of potted plants, cutting her cubicle off from the rest of the office. Once I sit down, we’re surrounded by foliage, and it smells like green leaves and damp soil. My blood pressure starts to lower.
It’s genius, really. If I could barricade Jude Jenkins away with plant life, I would.
“Can’t believe you keep all these alive.” A leaf shivers when I flick it.
Lucy scoffs gently. “It’s not that difficult, Vi.”
“Not for you, maybe.” Because Lucy is steady, diligent, responsible—an island of calm in the hectic waters of life. When everyone else loses their mind on days like today, she’s always plugging along, tapping away at her spreadsheets. Always buttoned up in a cardigan, her auburn hair tied up in a neat bun, glasses polished to a shine.
Meanwhile, I’m ready to howl at the ceiling over Jude Jenkins and the way his teasing gaze makes me feel: ready to burst.
“So what’s up?” Lucy asks it nicely, encouraging me with a nod, but her eyes flick to that spreadsheet. I’m interrupting her flow. “Let me guess: Jude Jenkins said or did something and it spun you out.”
Yes. Damn it.
And this is not my first visit here this week.
“No,” I lie. “I’m wondering what to wear tonight.”
Lucy shrugs. “Jude likes you in everything. Don’t stress about it.”
Gah!
“He does not. And I don’t care if he does.”
Lucy’s smile is teasing. “Sure.”
And… that is such bullshit. Jude Jenkins is my arch rival , not a flesh and blood man. If he did feel things like that, if he crushed on me back, he’d be positively dangerous with those broad shoulders and those knowing eyes and the slow, teasing smile he gives me sometimes. I’d be a goner. Roadkill.
But he doesn’t see me like that; doesn’t want me that way. Obviously not. It’s deluded. Otherwise why would I be going to this party alone?
Though Jude’s words from earlier drift across my mind: If you want to see my apartment, , you only need to ask.
A shiver coasts down my limbs, even as I tell myself he didn’t mean it. Psychological warfare: that’s what everything is with Jude. Nothing can be trusted, especially not flirting.
I wish.
I secretly, desperately wish.
“Wear that wrap dress you bought last month.” Lucy nods her head, decisive in exactly the way I need. See: this is why I come to her for help. Lucy always saves the day. “The one from that thrift store we liked? You looked amazing in that—like a classic movie star. And who knows?” Her mouth twitches. “Maybe by the end of the night, Jude will unwrap you.”
My heart lurches.
“I don’t want that.” The chair clatters back as I stand, and I nearly tumble into a potted shrub, cheeks flaming. “Oops. Sorry. Thanks, Luce.”
“No problem.” She’s already turning away, fitting those headphones back over her ears. And when I belatedly ask what she’s wearing tonight, Lucy’s ears flush pink but she pretends not to hear me. Her fingers tap away at the keys, plugging in some mysterious formula to her spreadsheet.
That’s cool. I’ll see her outfit later—and I’ll figure out whatever’s got my calm bestie squirming with nerves in her seat.
It’s going to be a big night.
I can feel it.
* * *
“Jude Jenkins is nothing to you.” Hours later, my breath fogs the bathroom mirror in my apartment as I lean close, slicking on my cherry-red lipstick. “Less than nothing. He is a speck of dust in this infinite universe.” My lips smack together, and I inspect myself with a frown.
Messy brunette bangs and shoulder-length hair. Gray eyes lined with kohl, and a tiny gold nose stud, and beneath that, the misty lavender wrap dress, clinging to my small curves.
It’ll do.
“When Jude looks at you, that squirmy feeling is pure hate. The need to stare at him all the time is because you instinctively know not to trust him.” My mouth drops open as I brush mascara over my lashes.
They’re not the kind of affirmations you’ll find in any self help book, but they’ve worked for me over the years. Whatever works, right? And sometimes, just sometimes, I need this reminder—that Jude Jenkins is not for me. That the raw, wild energy pulsing between us is pure loathing, and nothing more.
Nothing more.
Forget my stupid crush. Forget the rock-hard body I saw once when he spilled hot coffee and had to whip off his shirt at his desk. Forget the toned chest and ridged abs that are burned into my retinas, and the way my thighs squeezed together beneath the table that day. The way I forgot to breathe.
Not. For. Me.
Besides, what use is a beautiful body when it comes attached to such a terrible personality? And Jude Jenkins has dedicated his life to teasing me; to making me feel cranky and on edge. If he were a drug, I’d be in a twelve step program, trying to quit that man.
Trying to quit playing along.
Quit teasing him back.
Quit wanting him like this, in such a restless, needy way—blushing after him in the safety of my apartment, where no one else can see my secret shame.
Might as well name my vibrator ‘Jude Junior’ at this point, because that jerk rules my hormones and my deepest, most private thoughts.
“He’s nothing to you,” I say again, fluffing my hair.
Maybe this time, I’ll believe it.