Lucy
P resent day
If one more person bursts into my cubicle begging me to fix their monthly report, I will throw a stapler at their head. Yes, I like to help my coworkers out when I can, but I’m only one person! There are a dozen accountants on this floor! Did someone write the word ‘schmuck’ on my forehead while I was sleeping last night?
Huffing and puffing and muttering under my breath, I rattle through another set of corrections, my fingers thundering over the keyboard. Finished my own report yesterday, of course.
All around, people bustle around the office, chatting and laughing by the water cooler, or arguing on the phone. The air smells like carpet cleaner, warm paper from the printer, and strong coffee. It’s a bright day, and sunshine spears through the half-lowered blinds to cook us at our desks.
My chair squeaks as I spin around, snatching up my calculator and double-checking the numbers.
I love numbers.
Numbers are concrete. Absolute. They tell a clear story, and if you can read them, you can make sense of the world.
This world, anyway. The world of accounts and spreadsheets and frazzled clients calling us on the phone, asking us to explain every single charge on their invoices. Numbers are armor.
I don’t even notice Darius until he clears his throat behind me. I whirl around, heart slamming, to find him leaning against my cubicle wall, stroking the stem a potted plant with a long, elegant finger.
The leaves shiver.
I do, too.
But my shoulders square, and I tamp down all those knee-jerk reactions I always have around this man: the fluttering pulse, the squirmy stomach, the heat climbing my throat. No time for that nonsense. I wrestle my body into submission and smile at my friend.
“Luce,” Darius drawls, brown gaze flicking to mine. “I think you need more plants.”
Ha. As if. With just one more pot squeezed into the explosion of greenery I’m building up in my cubicle, I could charge tourists for entrance.
“They’re relaxing.” My heart thuds beneath my blouse. “Plants lower our cortisol. It’s scientifically proven.”
Darius smiles as I yank off my glasses and polish them on my cardigan, wiping away this morning’s stress-smudges. “Clearly. Is everyone working you into the ground up here?”
“Yup.”
And the composer is a regular visitor in my cubicle—regular enough that I keep an extra chair for him, half-submerged in leaves—so I return to my work, fingers flying over the keyboard. He won’t be offended. Plants rustle as Darius slides past, sinking into his chair behind me, and damn it, I can’t focus with him back there.
His gaze is hot against the back of my neck.
The cedar scent of him makes me breathe faster, gulping down air.
And… I can’t think straight. The numbers all blur together.
So I throw up my hands and give up, turning to face Darius where he’s lounging, one ankle crossed over his knee.
“Don’t mind me.” His handsome face breaks into a smile, and oh, he’s so good looking. It’s not fair to us mere mortals. Because some of us need to focus, damn it, and not make asses of ourselves in front of men who see us only as friends.
Friends.
It hurts being this close to a man who I dream about every night, and who is oblivious to me… but I can’t give Darius up. Even as only a friend, I’m addicted to him.
To his gentle humor and patience.
To his teasing glances and the coffee he brings me first thing every morning, always with some kind of warm pastry in a paper bag.
Not to mention his beauty and intelligence and the way he makes me feel more grown up , somehow, like someone who should be taken seriously.
Yeah. I can’t quit Darius Amin. Not even when every rumor about him dating this receptionist or that intern makes my poor, bruised heart shrivel and ache. Not even when every flushed, sticky daydream I have about him makes me feel horribly guilty.
I mean, it’s not like I can help it. Believe me, if I could kill this crush, I’d snipe it in a heartbeat. I’d snap its neck, hit man style.
“Can I help you with something? Why are you hiding in my cubicle this time?” Tapping my chin, I pretend to think. “Let me guess. You winked and caused a stampede among the admin assistants, and now you’re hiding from all your admirers up here.”
Darius’s eyes twinkle, and he relaxes back in the chair. “You seriously overestimate my effect on women, Luce. Why is that, I wonder?”
Ugh. Where’s that stapler? I’ve found a new target.
“Don’t kid yourself, Amin. Some of us are immune to your charms,” I lie.
“So you say.”
See… this is why I can never squish the final embers of my crush for Darius. I give myself all these stern lectures about how he’s not interested in me, about how it’s been a whole year and he’s never made a move, but then Darius will flirt, he’ll say something like that, and I’m back to square one. Back to wondering.
Hoping.
Longing.
It would be cruel except Darius really doesn’t know how I feel. He has no idea that these tiny moments of flirtation with him hurt me more than a whole failed relationship would with someone else.
I mean, probably. As an eternally single girl, I wouldn’t really know. Too busy mooning after this roguish composer.
“So,” Darius says. “Hot date for the party tonight?”
I scoff, fogging my own glasses. “Hardly.”
It’s our office’s anniversary party. Ten years of Grapevine Creative Agency, celebrated on a skyscraper rooftop with a live band and an open bar. It’s all anyone’s talked about for months, and of course I’m going, but Darius’s question sticks me with a sliver of doubt.
Is he bringing a date? Will I have to watch that? Will I have to laugh and chat and make polite conversation with whichever lucky woman won him for the night, all as punishment for crushing on my friend?
Maybe I’ll fake a headache. Rooftop parties are probably super windy anyway, and yes, I bought that amazing dress—but I’m not sure I can pull it off.
“No one’s caught your eye, huh?” Darius rubs his firm jaw, considering. “That’s fair. I can’t believe anyone would ever deserve you, Luce.”
And that is so far from the problem that I can’t help my bitter laugh. “As if. No, someone would have to ask me first, Darius. I have zero practice at dating. I’m twenty five years old and I’ve never even been kissed.”
The composer’s eyes flare with surprise, and I replay my words with mounting horror.
Never. Been. Kissed.
Why ? Why did I tell him that? Aah! Why did I just confess to my all-consuming crush that I’m a twenty five year old virgin, and no one wants me? The sounds of the busy office swell and blur together, mingling with my rattling pulse, and Darius’s lips move, but I don’t hear the words.
“Huh?”
“I said I’ll help you. I’ll be your practice, if you want.” Darius smiles at me, sunny and calm, like he just offered me a cupful of sugar rather than dating practice . What the—? “We could go to the party together. I’ll show you off; build up your confidence. Let you feel what a real date is like.”
A date with Darius Amin would be unlike a date with any other man. This, I am sure of, just like I’m sure this idea is a one-way street to a broken heart. How can I pretend to date the man I’m already madly in love with? How would I survive that? But…
“O-okay,” my treacherous mouth says. “Sure.”
Gah!
Darius blinks and straightens in his chair, like he didn’t expect me to agree. “Ah… good. Good! So I’ll pick you up at seven?”
Throat too tight to speak, I nod.
Darius leaves in a rustle of foliage, and I’m left with clammy hands and a fizzy, swooping feeling in my chest.
A fake date with my handsome friend.
With the charmer who breaks hearts everywhere he goes.
What am I thinking?