Chapter 7
SEVEN
The next day, I show up at eight on the dot, waving as I pass Decker in the main room.
Deck works as the gym teacher at Seaside Point Elementary during the school year, and each summer works on Grant’s crew.
If I were to guess, I’d say he’s assigned to the Daytrip job to keep an eye on me as I start my new job.
Once at my desk, I log in and check my email, where four messages from my boss already sit.
His door was closed when I came in, and occasionally his voice mumbles through the thin wall.
When I head into the breakroom to grab a coffee and a donut (again, my lucky day—there’s a chocolate frosted), I see him for the first time of the day.
I’m stirring creamer into my cup when he walks in, eyes cast down and a coffee cup in his hand, but he stumbles when he catches sight of me.
Something passes over his face, so momentary that I don’t get to dissect it before his neutral mask is back in place.
Not for the first time, that urge to see what happens when he’s truly knocked off his feet, what happens when he lets his true emotions shine through, surges through me.
I don’t give in to that urge, instead choosing to remain neutral as I give him a small wave and a smile.
Normal. I can act normal, right? Just…smile, wave, and get my job done.
He gives me one of those small, cordial but annoyed nods before he busies himself with his own drink. It’s not until I’m headed for the door that his voice calls from behind me.
“What are you wearing?” he asks. When I turn, his eyes scan me, not with interest, but confusion, as if he can’t make sense of what he’s seeing.
Today I’m in jeans, a colorful pastel top, and pink sneakers.
I went a bit bolder with my earrings, a pair of red hearts that I normally wear on Valentine’s Day, but when I saw them in my jewelry box, they made me smile.
It looks similar to what I’ve seen Sutton wear, so I thought it would be fine, but maybe I was wrong.
“I’m sorry,” I say, trying not to feel self-conscious with a man like Graham Hawthorne. Something tells me that with this man, being confident in my choices is half of the battle. “Is this outside of the dress code? Sutton told me that there wasn’t really one, so long as I looked put together.”
“No, no. It’s just…very colorful.”
“I’m a very colorful person.” Tipping my head a bit to the side, I give him a once-over, the same way he gave me, and his body stiffens just a bit. “Is color not allowed?”
Eventually, he sighs. “It’s not really professional.”
I cross my arms, recalling Sutton’s reassurance.
Don’t back down to his surly attitude.
Don’t give in to his taunting.
Bite back.
“Says who?”
“Says who?” he parrots, confused.
“Yes. Who says colors aren’t professional?” His jaw tightens before he looks past me, and somehow, someway, I know this is a win for me.
“No one, I suppose. Just...make sure you look put together, okay? People will come in here, and you’ll be the first person they meet. You’ll set the tone for any meetings I have.”
“Well, then I’d better make sure I’m as fun, inviting, and happy as possible, shouldn’t I?” I ask with a teasing tone. “You know, since meeting you usually drains people’s energy.”
His scowl deepens, and I suppress a small smile at the fact that I’m getting a reaction out of him.
“Make sure you get those applications for the GM on my desk by four, okay?”
A win glows within me.
“Already done. They’re in your inbox, but if you’d like me to print them, just let me know. I’m working on sorting through the waitstaff applications now.” When his face shifts in confusion, I continue. “I should have those on your desk by four.”
“Great. Thank you,” he says through a tight jaw, before turning his back to me to finish making his coffee. Despite his brush off, I find myself smiling as I return to my desk, knowing somehow I won that battle.
June 1, Graham 0.
At noon, my stomach grumbles, signaling it’s time for my lunch.
Sutton told me that as long as no appointments are scheduled and I get my work done, I can take a lunch break of up to an hour whenever I wish.
The sun is shining today, and since I’m now working an office job, I’m eager to spend as much time as I can outside, and I've decided the deck behind the main building over the beach is the perfect choice. Before I go, I take in a deep breath and knock on Graham’s door.
I can’t spend the next however long I work here pretending this person doesn’t exist. Last night, I decided the best course of action was to pretend the other night never happened. I’m just here as a new hire to a semi–grumpy man whom I need to win over.
“Yeah?” he calls, and I open the door, poking my head in. A stack of papers is laid out before him, and he doesn’t lift his head to greet me.
“Hey, Graham, I’m headed out to the deck for some fresh air and to take my lunch. Want to come with me?” I ask. He just stares at me. “Lunch. Do you want to have it with me?”
“Lunch?” he asks, clearly deeply confused as to what I’m talking about.
“Yes, lunch. A meal you eat midday? Sandwiches, salads, and soup are the norm. I bought my own, though if you didn’t bring anything, I can easily wait and order something in for you. I’m going to eat outside. It’s a gorgeous day, and it seems ridiculous to spend the entirety of it inside.”
“You want to have lunch with me?” I nod. “Why would you want to have lunch with me?” he asks, genuinely confused.
I tip my head to the side, a smile tipping the edges of my lips.
“So we can get to know one another,” I say, and his frown deepens further. “I’ve decided we have a blank slate. I know nothing about you; you know nothing about me.”
“I know plenty about you,” he says, his voice smooth and alluring, and my breath catches in my chest. His own face goes blank, as if he didn’t mean to say that.
I force myself to forget the things I know about him, like the fact that he has a filthy mouth or that he has an impressive cock and very much knows how to use it.
I fail miserably, but I hope that it doesn’t show on my face. Instead, I clear my throat and give him a cheery smile.
“Yes, well, blank slate, remember? That’s why I wanted to have lunch with you. To get to know you.”
“Why would we do that?”
“That’s what friends do.”
He shakes his head, almost as if that’s unfeasible.
“We’re not friends. We’re coworkers.”
I smile, happy to be on this stubborn footing. Stubborn, I can handle.
“We're not friends yet. That’s the point of the get-to-know-one-another thing. That way, we can be friends and coworkers.”
He bites back a grimace, and for a moment, I think it’s at the idea of being friends with me, but I change my mind when he speaks again.
“That’s not necessary. I’m here to turn this place around, not to make friends.”
“You can do both,” I suggest, with a small laugh. “The two are not mutually exclusive, you know. We’re going to be spending a lot of time together; might as well be friends.”
“I’m good,” he says, skepticism written across his face. “Thank you for the offer, though.”
I stare at him for a long moment before speaking. “You’re good?”
“Yeah. I’m good. I don’t really do friends.”
“You don’t…you don’t do friends.” He stares at me instead of answering. “Do you have friends?”
His jaw tightens.
“Not that it matters, but I have contacts, and I have acquaintances. Calling people friends is sugar coating the fact that in my life, relationships are networking opportunities.”
My jaw goes slack.
“Did you just say relationships are just networking opportunities?”
He lets out a deep sigh, one laced with irritation.
“What else would they be?”
“People to spend your time with? People to have fun with? People to celebrate accomplishments with?” Something hits me, and my eyes widen.
“Have you ever been in love?” His brow furrows deeper, a wordless answer.
“Oh, buddy, we're going to make you live.
You know, it's actually so lucky that you found me.”
“I feel like we have different definitions of luck,” he grumbles, but I barely notice the dig.
Instead, ideas move through my mind, tumbling over and over before I make my decision and speak it aloud. “I’m gonna win you over.”
“You’re what?” he asks, lifting one thick eyebrow.
“We’re going to be friends, Graham. By the end of the summer, I’m going to be your first real friend.”
“Good luck with that,” he says with a snort.
I tip my head, giving him a genuine, wide smile. “Haven’t you heard? I’m the luckiest girl in the world.”
And then I get another one of those rare, increasingly coveted by me micro-smiles, and my chest lightens.
I walk off with an extra pep in my step before I eat on the deck.
I pull out a sketchbook and doodle as I eat.
I spend my break zoning out and drawing the tiniest corner of a mouth, over and over.
It isn’t until I’m almost done with my lunch that I realize it’s the corners of Graham’s mouth I’m drawing.