Chapter 10
CHAPTER TEN
PHIL
Is it pathetic that when, after spending the whole weekend on tenterhooks, waiting for Griff’s reply, the email finally appears in my inbox, I ignore it for an hour? Or at least, I try to ignore it while actually fretting about it nonstop.
Then, when I finally open it and read the nice things he said, I immediately snatch up my phone and add him as a contact. Not to mention my whole text-diarrhea…. What was I thinking? He didn’t need that much detail about me and my feelings.
But the most pathetic part of all? The way I keep the text thread open while I attempt to work and continually nudge my screen so it stays active and I’ll be able to see the second he reads my messages.
Because somehow, in my head, I have this weird, half-formed idea that maybe Griff and I can be…
friends. After all, we work in related fields and have a shared interest in fashion, which is already grounds for a friendship…
right? Plus, we’ve already met and communicated, which for me is the hardest part of making friends.
His email this morning was so nice and made me feel like maybe I didn’t completely fuck everything up last week.
And he’s big and sexy, just the way I like my men. Not that I’ve had many men. Hooking up might not require conversation, but usually guys want to hear at least one word. Most of my sexual experience comes from men who already know I can be nonverbal, which limits the pool a lot.
Not that any of that is relevant to me and Griff becoming friends, but… maybe I’m open to friendship just being the first step.
I heave a huge sigh and resist the urge to bang my head repeatedly against my desk. If Calla hears that, she’ll come in, and questions are the last thing I need right now. I’m honestly not sure I’d even be able to answer them. My anxiety has been sky-high since I sent those texts.
Unable to help myself, I glance at my phone screen again—and freeze. Because the tiny notification has changed from Delivered to Read.
He’s read them. He’s… oh fuck.
The seconds stretch into a minute, which stretches into eternity.
Okay, it’s probably just another minute, but my anxiety doesn’t believe that.
It’s convinced that Griff is currently scoffing about my stupid texts—or worse, laughing—and that he’s going to leave me on Read.
After all, it’s not like I asked a question that he needs to answer.
He probably figures he doesn’t need to reply until he’s actually got something he needs to tell me. He might even—
Jesus fucking Christ, he’s replying!
I remind myself to breathe, not hyperventilate, as those three blessed dots do their dance… and then turn into words.
A reply. An actual message I can read.
Hi, Phil. Thanks for sharing your number.
I blink. Is… that it? I mean… it’s perfectly professional and appropriate. And it’s not his responsibility to make me feel like less of an idiot. But I wish he—
You did nothing wrong on Thursday. I hope my bad mood didn’t make things harder for you. I know I can be intimidating.
My heart melts into a puddle of goo. Torture couldn’t get me to admit that his scowl was part of the reason I didn’t speak to him. Not when he phrased it like that, like maybe his appearance sometimes frustrates him the way my anxiety does to me.
In my rush to reply, I fumble my phone, end up juggling to keep it from hitting the floor, and somehow bang my funny bone on the desk. Breathing through gritted teeth as I ride the wave of pain, I type my reply.
Nope! I promise it wasn’t that.
Not that you aren’t intimidating. I’m sure that comes in handy sometimes… like when there’s only one doughnut left in the break room and it’s a race to grab it.
I actually think your size is attractive
Gasping, I throw my phone and watch it hit the carpet and then skid the rest of the way across the room. I did not type that! I didn’t! And I sure as fuck didn’t send it!
Except I did.
Moaning, the sharp ache in my elbow still not gone, I get up to retrieve my phone and do some damage control. Maybe I should get Calla in here. She’ll probably need to know that I’m sexually harassing our clients.
He hasn’t replied yet, but he’s definitely read my stupid message. I brace myself and send another.
I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean for that to sound like a come-on.
I was just saying that intimidating isn’t the only thing your size is
Ugh, that’s not any better. I’m so sorry, and I’ll tell Calla she’ll need to handle all contact from now on.
Blinking away tears, I let my head fall back. I can’t believe I fucked this up so badly in such a short span of time.
My phone vibrates in my hand, and I force myself to look. Whatever he’s got to say, I deserve it.
Don’t do that. I’m not offended.
Adrenaline races through me, leaving me a little lightheaded. Does he mean it?
And yeah, it does come in handy sometimes. Not at work, though. Everyone here knows me too well.
I swallow hard and make myself think through my response.
Oh? Are you the guy who lets someone else take the last doughnut?
Hell, no! When it comes to pastry and coffee, all bets are off. But they all know I’m mostly bark, not bite.
They joke that grunting is my second language.
I laugh out loud, then glance at the closed door, worried that someone might have heard.
Not sure why—I’m allowed to laugh. If someone did hear and came in to ask what was so funny, I could tell them, and they wouldn’t think anything of it.
Fuck anxiety and the way it makes me worry about things needlessly.
lol so you’re partly nonverbal too. I sense the beginning of a beautiful friendship.
Damn. I bite my lip as the status immediately changes to Read. Maybe that was pushy. He’s still a client, after all, and we barely know each other. I need to be more profe—
Can’t deny, it’d be nice to hang with someone besides Vivi who doesn’t expect me to use words for no reason ;P
The sudden bite of jealousy surprises me, but… who’s Vivi? A girlfriend? Disappointment slithers through me. I knew I found Griff attractive, but I didn’t realize part of me really was thinking he and I could maybe be more than friends. It’s not like I have feelings for him.
But at least friendship is still on the table. And hey… we’re joking around together! Giddiness swirls through me. I turned that shitshow of a meeting that made me nonverbal into a new friend.
Emboldened by my achievement, I ask
Who’s Vivi? She sounds cool.
It takes a ridiculous amount of time for him to reply even though I can see that he’s typing. Either his relationship with Vivi is complicated and needs a huge backstory—which, not gonna lie, I’m totally here for—or he doesn’t want to tell me and he’s trying to come up with something to say.
My dog
Even as silly inner me perks up at the news that he doesn’t have a girlfriend after all, a photo of the cutest damn dog I’ve ever seen appears on my screen, and I can’t stop my “Aww.” Not that I’d want to. I’m never going to feel bad about appreciating a sweet pupper.
OMG she’s so cute! She’s a terrier of some kind, right?
Yorkie—Yorkshire terrier. We’re pretty sure she’s a cross of some kind, since we don’t know who the father was, but so far she seems to be mostly Yorkie.
Is her mom yours too?
No, friend of a friend’s dog got knocked up. Vivi was the runt, so they kept her around. Then she and I met at a cookout and fell in love. That was nearly four years ago.
Oh my god, this is too precious.
Vivi’s such an unusual name for a dog. It suits her, but what made you choose it?
There’s another suspiciously long delay. He might be working, but I can’t help thinking he just doesn’t want to answer. It wasn’t a hard question, though.
I sit back in my chair and think about it. A Yorkshire terrier named Vivi. Almost four years old. Runt of the litter. Friend of a friend…. Maybe he named her after an ex or something? But why would that be a big deal? It’s not like I’d know his ex.
Or would I?
I’m pretty sure I’ve never met anyone called Vivi, but that can be short for something else. Viviana, Vivette, Vivienne—
Wait. Almost four years old?
I snatch up my phone.
Did you name your dog after Vivienne Westwood?
I’m going to feel like a fool if—when—he laughs at me about this, but—
She’d just died, and she was such an icon! Don’t judge me.
My choked squeal is a little louder than I thought it would be, and even as I type my reply, Calla knocks on the door from the meeting room.
“Yeah?” I call, hitting Send. I don’t want her to freak out.
Zero judgment here, just so much appreciation. Vivienne Westwood Pevensy is a credit to her namesake’s memory.
“I thought I heard a weird noise,” Calla says, but I don’t look up. I’ve had another thought and need to send a follow-up message.
“Yeah, sorry. Cute dog pic.”
Is this why nobody at your office is intimidated by you? They know you’re a dog dad who reveres Vivienne Westwood?
“Dog pic? What? Who are you texting?”
“Uh…”
They know about Vivi but not who she’s named after. You’re the only person who ever asked.
Stunned, I let the phone drop into my lap and lift my eyes to look at my best friend. Does he mean I’m the only one who knows?
“Phil?” Calla prompts. “Is everything okay?”
Pulling myself together, I nod. “Yeah, sorry. I’m texting Griff… Pevensy.” I’m pretty sure she knows who I mean, but adding his surname makes me feel less like a creep who was maybe daydreaming about Sunday morning snuggles… and Friday night fucks.
Calla’s brows shoot up, and she comes to slouch in the chair in front of my desk. “Why? And how did that lead to a cute dog pic?”
“He has one. Uh… just let me…” I hold up my left forefinger while my right hand retrieves my phone and types out a quick message.
I’m honored to be part of the inner circle. I gotta go, but can I text you later? I have more Vivi questions.
I wait long enough for him to reply with a thumbs-up and a smiley face before tapping on the picture of Vivi and holding it out for Calla to see. “Griff’s dog. Her name is Vivi.”
Predictably, Calla coos over Vivi’s adorable little face, but unfortunately, the cute dog doesn’t completely wipe her mind. When she’s done with the puppy talk (to a dog who is not in the room with us), her laser-sharp gaze returns to me.
“When did Griff Pevensy start texting you photos of his dog, and more importantly, why?”
Putting my phone down, I shrug. “It just happened. He emailed to tell me I was right about Margaret’s gown—which I already knew.”
“Of course.”
“And he had his number in the email in case I ever needed to reach him. So I texted to give him mine.”
“All very reasonable so far.”
Damn, I was hoping she would just accept that and assume we fell into social chat from there. Which we kind of did… but not until I embarrassed myself by sexually harassing him.
I’m not telling Calla that, though. “I also apologized for not being able to speak to him last week and explained why. He was cool about it.”
She sniffs. “He’d better have been. We don’t work with assholes.”
I roll my eyes. My adoration of my friends and the way they protect me doesn’t mean I can’t see how ridiculous they get with it sometimes.
“Anyway, he said something about being fluent in grunting and how at least Vivi doesn’t expect him to use words.
I asked who Vivi was, and…” I make a voilà gesture.
“I guess that makes sense,” she concedes. “Hey, Phil?”
“Yeah?”
Her grin takes over her face. “You’re designing a gown for Margaret Haywood.”
Our combined shriek brings our staff running.