Eight
Gavin
Mia was onto something with this trope test. I underestimated how different it would feel to sit next to her knowing we’re
supposed to be acting like characters in an office romance.
She cleared off the end of her desk for me to set up my laptop. Afternoon light is streaking through the windows, illuminating
floor-to-ceiling shelves accessible by a library ladder I installed for her last year. The corkboard on the wall across from
her desk is tacked with slips of paper and photos and sticky notes.
I went straight to bed after our non-date last night and awoke to a text from Joe that was just three question marks. I put
him off by reminding him we’ll have time to talk at the game this weekend. Might’ve made it harder on myself since my brother
will be there, too, but at least I gave myself time to think of a good explanation. But it was an important reminder of why
we need to keep this a secret. I can only hope he hasn’t already told Sera I’m seeing someone.
Ironically, even though the surroundings are familiar, I am seeing Mia in a new light.
Or rather, I’m allowing myself to think of her in the way I’ve always suppressed, because I’m supposed to be acting like her lovesick colleague.
That must be why I’m captivated by the furrow in her brow as she types, the way she nibbles her thumbnail before returning to the keyboard.
But she doesn’t seem affected. No furtive glances or evidence of the temptation to cross the best-friend line that she mentioned
last night. Driven by an urge to see if this made-up scenario is getting to her, I ask, “Is this working?”
She pulls her attention from the monitor, eyes unfocused behind her glasses, like her mind was elsewhere, and I feel bad for
speaking up. “Is what working?”
“This?” I twirl an orange pen in the air, the one I nabbed from the jar to doodle with. “Are you getting—” I shift, trying
to get comfortable in the space-age chair she insisted I sit in “—inspired?”
“It’s been five minutes.”
“Is that all?”
She leans across the desk and taps an oversize hourglass I hadn’t noticed. “Yep.”
“Wait, where have you been hiding that?” I make grabby hands.
She snatches it out of reach. “It’s not a toy, it’s a tool.” I can’t hold back a smirk, and she rolls her eyes, knowing me
too well. “That’s what she said. Yeah, yeah.”
“You walked right into it.”
“I’m a romance author. Innuendo is part of the job. What’s your excuse?”
“My best friend is a romance author?”
She grins. “Fair enough. But stop distracting me.”
“Shutting up now.” But it’s so quiet that I swear I can hear the sand shifting through the hourglass.
I’m more sure than ever that Mia picked workplace romance because it’s the easiest way to claim she’s doing something outside
the box while sticking to her usual routine.
One thing is for sure: Even though I’m on edge about how to act, this does feel less risky than last night when there was that flicker of curiosity in her eyes.
Like if we tested the only-one-bed trope, no one would sleep on the floor.
I can imagine waking up next to her, gorgeously disheveled in the only open room of a fully booked hotel.
Seeing an awareness dawn in her eyes, then a rush of desire as she nestled closer and. ..
Yeah, something’s got to give. Normally I do my best not to pester Mia when she’s writing. But she didn’t invite me here to
behave like I typically would. The vibe in here is all work and no play, and based on everything we discussed last night,
it’s my mission to change that. I resettle myself, trying to find a position that isn’t pure agony since this is the most
uncomfortable piece of furniture I’ve ever sat on, and I’m struck with an idea.
Biting back a childish grin, I email her a formal complaint about the chair, then open my design software and get to work,
laying out a plan for a job I recently contracted, two acres surrounding a renovated mid-century home. I’m dying to revive
the pear grove on one corner of the property and tone down the maximalist landscaping at the front of the house.
After working for almost an hour, I check my email. Ha. Mia replied to my complaint. I glance over at her, but she’s typing
away, curls brushed back into a bun that gives her a no-nonsense appearance. Paired with her striped button-down, she’s going
for an all-business approach. Now I feel kinda bad for sending the prank email.
RE: Can’t work in these conditions
Greetings Mr. Lane,
The team has reviewed your complaint, and while we take all concerns seriously, we take issue with you singling out Mia Brady as “the evil mastermind” behind your discomfort.
Not only is Mia our most dedicated employee, you’ve been assigned her preferred form of seating.
It is not, as you so erroneously stated, an “alien captain’s chair. ”
I highlight erroneously to check the definition and snort. Erroneously my ass.
Your seat is an ergonomic, cushioned marvel of engineering (see link to the product description and note the five-star rating).
You should count yourself lucky to rest your butt in such luxury.
“Pretty sure talking about your colleague’s butt in the workplace is frowned upon,” I say.
She keeps her eyes on the screen, but the corner of her mouth lifts in a grin. “We have great lawyers. I’m not worried.”
Oh, that’s how she wants to play it. “Fine. We’ll see how you do when complaints start stacking up.” From what I’ve read,
a lot of office-romance novels are basically a long string of HR violations.
Typing furiously, I write a reply and send it to her. Two minutes later there’s a response in my inbox.
RE: Workplace-appropriate behavior
Hello again,
With all due respect, Mr. Lane, we’re wondering how you have the time to file multiple formal complaints during business hours.
While we failed to use the proper anatomical term for your gluteal region, we believe you understood our meaning. Your posterior
is blessed to be sitting in Mia’s chair of choice, and she’s quite frankly an angel for bestowing it upon you.
P.S. Furnish your own chair if you’re going to be such a crybaby.
I let out a laugh. “You’ve resorted to name-calling?”
“Better than wasting time with falsified claims.” Her posture is rigid, shoulders back, as if she’s getting into the character
of the prim-and-not-at-all-proper boss. It shouldn’t be sexy, and it’s not, of course. Nothing about her precise words and
hint of wickedness is at all arousing.
I shift in my seat, and my focus gets yanked from how closely we’re toeing the line between joking and flirting to how massively
terrible this chair is. “I meant every word. Feels like I’m being eaten by a Venus flytrap.”
The corner of her mouth twitches, but she keeps her expression neutral. “It’s firm, to establish good posture.”
“It’s a torture device.”
“Ungrateful.” She’s smiling now.
“Unethical.”
She laughs. “I really didn’t mean to punish you.” Her expression turns apologetic. “I thought you’d like it.”
“I don’t hate it.” I’m not talking about the chair. I’m talking about having this side of Mia—flirty, teasing—directed at
me for the first time. “But yeah, it is pretty bad,” I say, covering my slip. “Want to switch?”
“Won’t help. This one’s the same.”
I’m shocked she owns two of these monstrosities. “You keep a backup?”
“I ordered an extra one for you,” she mumbles. “When you agreed to this, I figured the least I could do was make sure you
were comfortable.”
“You bought me a desk chair?” That’s pretty damn sweet.
“Yeah, but you hate it.” She looks dejected, and I instantly want to fix it.
“Okay, yeah, I do. But you spent hundreds of dollars on this?” I clicked through the link—it retails for over five hundred dollars. And she must’ve assembled it, too. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“You’re doing this for me.”
“Hanging out with you for the afternoon isn’t a hardship.”
“It’s not just hanging out with me, though, is it?” She holds my gaze, long enough that warmth blooms in my chest. I’m an
expert at pushing it aside, but lately my feelings for her are resistant to pruning, like a weed, and just as unwelcome.
“Since we haven’t discussed what exactly we’re doing here, it kind of is.”
“Good point. We need roles to play,” she says, and her cheeks flush a deep rose color.
An answering heat rises to my own face, which is ridiculous. It’s not like I’m a stranger to role-play, just the idea of doing
it with Mia. To pull my mind from tempting images, I say, “Makes sense. We’re acting out workplace romance, so we should get
into character.” I go to lean back, but the chair has me in a vise grip, posture like a supervillain. “Why am I here working
in your office?”
“Backstory. Hmm.” She drums her fingers on the desk, slipping into what I recognize as brainstorming mode. “You work remotely,
but your roommate is your ex-girlfriend who’s trying to become a yoga influencer, and she says your loud typing ruins her
flow.”
I’m nodding along. “So I’ve been working in the coffee shop, and we got to chatting about how expensive their cold brew is
when you can just—”
“Make it at home,” she says, lighting up. “And then we got to arguing over whose cold-brewing method was superior—”
“Mine. I use dry ice.”
“I tell you that’s ridiculous, which it is by the way. Dry ice?” She raises her brows but keeps rolling with the idea. “And how you should try mine instead, but we both have projects to finish, so we sample each other’s coffee while working late into the night...”
That catches my attention. “That took a steamy turn.”
“It’s kind of what I do best,” she says, with obvious pride, but then she deflates. “Except this isn’t a book. We’re sitting
here in my office in the middle of the day and physical stuff is off the table, so really, this is pointless.”
I hate seeing the defeat in her eyes. For this to be a success, she needs to let me in. Even though she’s never seen me as