When Glitter Meets Gold

1. Sara

1

SARA

M y back straightens in my chair, my eyes narrowing as I reach into the top drawer of my office desk. Slowly, I extract a glossy brochure, setting it onto the polished tabletop while tracking the insect that’s crawling next to the pen holder. My freshly glossed lips purse together as I watch a tiny fruit fly taint the shiny surface with its sticky, microscopic legs.

I have this tendency, a quirk if you will, to scream when I’m in the presence of crawly things no matter what size they are.

But…since the office happens to be experiencing a rare lull of silence, I’m going to contain any outbursts should this creature move so much as an inch closer to me. I will remain calm, and I won’t make a sound.

I twist the brochure into a roll, the laminate squeaking beneath my grip as I wonder how, on the forty-ninth floor of a New York skyscraper, a fly has managed to infiltrate my concrete safe haven.

The fly stops, dramatically so, before angling its little body on a path which happens to point toward me .

I will remain calm, and I won’t make a sound.

It begins crawling with the speed of an F1 car.

“Ohmyfuck!!”

I can practically hear the irritated whoosh of heads that twist in my direction.

“Sorry,” I say, wincing as I jam the brochure back in my desk and smooth down my long tendrils of chestnut hair which have probably leapt out of place during the panic. “Sorry, being quiet now.” I hold up my hands.

I barely finish my apology before the high-pitched notes of my best friend’s voice comes from over my shoulder.

“Useless meeting, as usual,” Amber declares as she props her leggy, slender frame against my desk. “Two hours listening to Walter praise Kandi and her team. Her pitch sucked, but of course nobody said anything because she bribed the room with twelve-dollar smoothies. You know that’s ninety-six dollars? On mashed-up fruit! She’s up to something, some sneaky secret agenda.” Amber nudges me. “Right?”

“Oh, yeah...” I nod absently while glaring at a guy in the cubicle two rows down. “She’s the sneakiest. Hey, speaking of fruit, I think Raj is harboring nectarines again.”

Amber turns her head to where Raj, a seventeen-year-old intern from California, is twirling on his chair. “Pardon?”

“I saw a fruit fly. Every time there’s a fruit fly, it’s because Raj forgot to clear his nectarines from his desk. I’ll bet they’re in that drawer right now, festering and attracting things that crawl. I hate things that crawl.” I wince.

“You don’t say.” The sarcastic drawl of the receptionist, Francis Huang comes from behind me. “Why do you hate things that crawl?” he asks, holding out a basket of withering pastries left over from earlier meetings. He dumps a sagging pan au chocolate on my desk, shrugging when flakes of stale pastry disperse over my keyboard and onto my lap. I swear he does it on purpose to get a reaction.

“I’d rather not say.” I glare at him while making a deliberate scene of brushing crumbs from the expensive fabric of my skirt.

Amber snorts. “Her childhood crush pushed her into a swamp, and a bunch of ants bit her on the ass.”

Amber’s softly lined gray eyes wrinkle at the corners as she chuckles to herself. Then she places a slender hand on my shoulder, gently squeezing a set of cloudy manicured nails into my skin. “Tell him the story.” She flashes a glance at Francis. “It’s hilarious, you’ll literally pee.”

Francis looks at me with one of those anticipating open mouthed smiles.

“I’m not using my unresolved trauma to amuse the two of you.” I smack Amber’s hand from my shoulder, scoop up the pan au chocolate and thrust it at Francis. I spin back to my desk, ignoring Amber’s relentless giggling.

“Ugh, boring.” Francis rolls his eyes and strides off to disappoint another booth with tragic baked goods.

Regardless of my snub to discuss the incident from childhood, I can feel my mind recalling that fateful day seventeen years ago anyway…

My family are visiting friends one summer. The kids have been shooed off to play in the backyard, which in the vastness of southern Florida, means full access to the swamps.

Georgina and Ty, two siblings from devil spawn origin, know I have a crush on their older brother, Jack. They tell me he wants to meet me in a secret location near the swamps. I’m eight, I don’t know that swamps are not romantic meet up spots, I just know I’ve scribbled a drawing of myself and Jack, and I want to give it to him.

“Almost there, Sarah.” Ty, the youngest grins .

I should have known when he mispronounced my name with that evil smile. I don’t have time to tell him for the thousandth time, ‘It’s Sara. Literally Zara but with an S,’ because we’ve arrived at the edge of the most putrid smelling swamp in existence.

“You gotta close your eyes, shut them tight,” Georgina says, wicked glinting in her eyes. “Or Jack won’t come out.”

I gulp as I stick my hand in my pocket, holding onto the drawing. Then, I close my eyes.

The rest is a blur because of how quickly things go from lusting for my first kiss…to catastrophic.

Three things are clear, however.

First, the sensation of a scrawny finger prodding my chest, sending me toppling backwards. Second, the slap of water as my body makes contact with the swamp. And third, the towering figure of the oldest sibling, Jack Baker, laughing as he watches me become a human magnet to a plague of biting fire ants…

I snap out of the nightmare.

Amber is still chuckling.

“You’re distracting me from what’s important.” I shiver, then spin on my chair to face the intern. “Raj, Nectarines.”

Amber gives me a sympathetic look. “Let’s leave the teenager alone, shall we? Besides, this is SB. Everyone has a little something in their desk.”

SB is short for Street Bandit, an app where street food vendors can link meals on the brink of expiration at discounted prices. It gained overnight fame when the creators, Justin Spence and Reza Parvin, went viral after posting their near mugging experience at a burrito stall on Bleeker Street. They were able to keep their wallets when they offered to buy their mugger dinner. When the man accepted, they decided it was a wholesome moment, one that would drive them to tackle food waste as well as help out people struggling to eat. So, they set up the app and named it Street Bandit in honor of their mugger. Now, it exists in practically every city in America. Which means our office is a place of constant food sampling. Which makes Amber’s point valid, everyone does indeed have a little something in their desks.

I swivel to face my friend. She is queen of the co-ord outfit, master of the sleek high ponytail. Not a blond strand is out of place, even at five p.m. on a Friday.

Looking at my friend is like staring into a lamp prescribed for seasonal affective disorder. Her glowing porcelain skin and bright eyes radiate light and fresh energy. Amber and I are appearance opposites because my mom’s Greek genes were stronger than my dad’s white American ones. I came into the world twenty-five years ago with deep brown hair, dark brown eyes, and sallow skin that freckles and tans at the first sign of sunshine. Whereas Amber once burned her upper boobs and forehead on the top deck of the Staten Island ferry because she forgot to wear high factor, in spring .

Glowing appearance aside, I notice something that threatens to cast a dark cloud over that radiance of hers. My eyes wander to the yellow Post-it fixed to the top of a pile of menus tucked tightly under her arm. “Deliver to marketing girl.” I recite from the handwriting on the Post-it as I hold out both hands to accept the menus. “Oh, new vendor? I’ll upload them right now, give them here.” I beckon again with my hands, but Amber doesn’t move.

She steps back, holding the menus to her chest. “Why don’t I put them in this pile right here?” She places the stack in a wire basket under my desk. “The non-urgent pile.”

I frown. “Why non-urgent? Is there something wrong with them? ”

She pushes the basket away as I attempt to reach for it. “No, they’re just normal menus, but it’s Friday, and everyone’s packing up. Maybe you should too?” Then her face lights up and she starts talking like she’s on super speed. “Ooh, why don’t we go to that cocktail place where they give you free drinks if you can do the splits? Remember that night?”

I feel my nose wrinkle as I grin. “I wish I didn’t, but yes, I remember.”

“You climbed onto the bar, ripped your sequin dress, fell into the hottest bartender…” Amber says while sucking in breaths of laughter.

“And learned doing the splits, is not in my DNA,” I say as I recall that particular night a few years ago. Right around the time I met my now ex… “Anyway, I can’t do tonight. But you go.”

I try to grab the menus from the basket, but Amber shoves it out of reach.

“You’re in here till late every night,” she says firmly, the laughter suddenly gone. “You never go out anymore, not to dinner, lunch, you don’t even want to go see a movie together. And don’t even get me started on the gorgeous outfits in your closet that never see the light of day…” She leans in. “Or a random dude’s bedroom floor. Honestly, it’s sinful behavior. I mean when was the last time you got your puss waxed?”

I fold my arms. “I go out. I just have to be in the mood. And hey, just because I’m not dating right now doesn’t mean I don’t get my… puss waxed.”

“You’re never in the mood.” She sighs. “It’s time to get back out there. Your vagina is never going to be this young again. Sara…it’s been a year.” She gives me that knowing lo ok, the one that gives me sympathy but also dares me to pretend I don’t know what she means.

I know exactly what she means.

It’s been a year since my breakup. But much longer since I stopped going out, seeing my friends, and feeling like I have any idea who I am outside of work. That’s not dramatic, that’s the truth. And maybe I should be getting back out there, trying new things, dating new people, but when you feel like a walking trainwreck on the inside, you question your ability to do the things that were once so normal.

“I know.” I slump back into the recess of my chair. “I’m getting better,” I say, mostly to get her off my back. “It’s just, I have to stay tonight because I need Walter to take me seriously before I apply for this…this…”

“Promotion?” Amber finishes.

“Shh!” I silence her by overcompensating with excessive commotion—opening and slamming a drawer, clearing my throat violently, tossing a pen into the small bucket of trash beneath my desk, then rummaging incessantly to retrieve it. “Don’t say it out loud, I don’t want anyone to know yet.”

Amber lowers her voice. “Walter takes you seriously. The odds are in your favor.”

I snort. Walter Schneider is my boss. A man who’s referred to me as Kirby so many times I’m inclined to believe he doesn’t actually know that it’s my last name and not my first.

“He makes this face when I wear pink, the one where he looks like he’s confused and disappointed at the same time. He said my perfume smelled like a sorority dressing room. He does not take me seriously.” I frown, recalling the time he waved his hand in front of his nose because my fragrance was giving him a headache. “Which is why I need to focus on work. The late nights will show I’m committed.” I flash her a weak smile. “I know you’re just looking out for me, but I’m okay. I promise I’ll get back out there eventually.”

“Fine,” she says, huffing as her gaze travels behind me. “Looks like Drew’s staying late tonight too, at least you have some eye candy.” She wiggles her eyebrows.

“He has a girlfriend, don’t be gross.” My eyes wander behind the clear glass of one of the boardrooms where Drew Dawson is stretching his muscular arms above his head. “But yeah, I guess he’s very pretty to look at.”

“That’s the spirit,” Amber chirps before calling over her shoulder as she moves away from my desk. “Don’t stay too late.”

I nod, even though I’m planning to stay at least another few hours. Bringing up my breakup is a sure way of keeping me out of my apartment so I’m not alone and thinking about Mark again.

Mark. His name whispers around me.

A sigh huffs out of me, because five on a Friday is not when I should be casting up memories of my old relationship.

But they flood in anyway.

Mark made people laugh, and all I’d hear from my friends was how funny they thought he was. Naturally I was drawn in by this because laughter tells your heart that everything is okay, and nobody hates the funny, handsome guy, right? It wasn’t until I realized that belittling comments and jokes at my expense were nothing more than shitty behaviour dressed up as humour. I thought patronizing comments were just his attempt to make me laugh, I didn’t realize he got a weird kick out of making me feel bad.

I’d been tricked by empty words and promises that he didn’t mean to sound like an asshole. And at the end of the day, he’d always tell me that he loved me.

I scrape my nails through my hair.

A hollow part of me commends my efforts of rejecting any advances whatsoever so that piecing every broken part of myself back together was a task I’d never be subjected to again. It’s not that I miss Mark. He was a prick. I miss the person I thought he was when we met, the person I believed he was for a short period of time. For the majority of our relationship, I was in love with the brief glimpse of someone who never really existed. Getting my head around that was the hardest part.

Yeah, this was going to be a long night.

A little before seven, the solitude and monotony of the evening has me drumming my nails to the beat of the ticking clock on the desk next to mine. While I reach to grab it and stuff it in the nearest drawer, several pop-up reminders have appeared on my screen. Adverts to hide somewhere in the app. One is for a Save the Bees charity, and the other is for the Narrow Valley Wilderness Hike in Maine.

Both sound unbearable.

I promptly send them to a folder marked low priority before deciding the ratio of caffeine to blood in my veins isn’t enough to see me through the rest of the night.

I spring from my chair to seek out the break room.

Only my body collides with something solid and rocklike. My hands fly out to stop my limbs from collapsing and dig into the ridges of a torso stacked with layer upon layer of slab like muscle. Large hands catch my waist, gripping me firmly to stop me from tumbling back.

I look up into the piercing brown eyes of the most beautiful man in the office, and perhaps on the entire planet .

“I’m so sorry,” I say, steadying myself. Even though I wear a generous helping of makeup, I’m almost certain a flush of pink has broken through the peach layers on my cheeks.

Drew Dawson looks down at me.

Drew. Finance manager extraordinaire, office hottie, gift from the heavens, body of a Norse god, Drew.

He’s the perfect secret crush. Off limits because he’s taken and operates on a level of gorgeous that prevents normal conversations from occurring without developing speech impediments or armpit sweating.

Amber and I estimate him to be around six two, but since he’s probably half Viking, I think he’s probably taller. And now he’s touching me for the first time, grinning down at me like it’s no big deal, eventually letting go of my waist when he’s sure I’m not going to face-plant.

“Sorry,” I whisper another apology.

“Hey, no worries, Sara.” His smile takes over his entire face.

I shrug, trying to force away the goofy grin I know erupted across my dithering face the second I heard my name leave his perfect lips.

We fall into stride as we head for the break room, every part of me captivated by the delicious spicy notes of his aftershave. He smells like a sexy bubble of Tom Ford’s finest Private Blends. Devine.

“Late nights, huh?” He nudges me. Another touch . My heart races. “We should be out in the world, not stuck in the same concrete walls we’ve looked at all day, right?”

I smile…and smile some more before I realize he ended on a question. “Yes, right.” I clear my throat. “I didn’t know you were still here. You’re usually the first to leave. ”

He nods, gesturing for me to go first as we head into the break room.

“I uh…” He scratches his chin. “I don’t really have a reason to rush home anymore I guess.”

“What do you mean?” I pause beside the coffee maker, then turn to find him standing right behind me.

“I split with my girlfriend a few weeks ago.”

My stomach collapses. I step back, my spine collides with the counter. “Split?”

Drew twists to grab a couple of mugs from a tall cupboard, his shirt pulling against his huge back muscles. I gulp a little too audibly. “Yeah, long time coming,” he says. “But hey, everything happens for a reason, right?”

“Right.” I squeak out a laugh then recover myself. “Sorry to hear that, really that sucks. Breakups are rough.”

My head is screaming. He’s single. He is single . He’s not supposed to be single. He’s only supposed to exist in a distant plane of very distant lusting. I’m not supposed to think there could ever be a chance…

He moves toward the coffee maker, towering above me like some sculpted marble god. “Sounds like you could tell a couple of stories.” He tilts his head to the side, grinning softly.

“Just one,” I say a little bitterly, grinning back as I cross my arms over my chest.

“Oh, that bad?” He sets a mug in the coffee maker and taps the knuckle of his index finger against the pour switch. I nod. “Damn, sorry.”

“Everything happens for a reason, right?” I shrug, realizing that my palms are becoming clammy because he’s so close to me and he smells very, very good. “Plus, it was a long time ago. Over it.” A lie.

“Good.” He nudges me. Third touch. “Hope you’re getting back out there, you’re too attractive to be staying home on a Friday.” He laughs, shakes his head. “Sorry, that just came out.”

I order my face to remain neutral as heat wraps around me like a boa constrictor performing the last fatal squeeze.

He passes me the coffee cup, his fingers brushing against mine for a moment. A bolt of lightning scorches through my insides.

I laugh. “It’s fine, and likewise.” I take a sip of coffee and almost choke because any other skill apart from breathing is currently impossible. “But I’m going to be here till late, so I guess this is it. I hope your night is more exciting.”

He makes a start on his own coffee. “I got training in a bit. Got a big comp I just signed up for.”

I fumble with a teaspoon before setting it on the counter, pretending I don’t know exactly what he’s talking about. “Is that your…CrossFit thing or something?”

“Yup.” He smiles, catching the spoon I almost let tumble. “That’s cool you remembered.”

I shrug like I haven’t performed frequent visits to his Instagram page where he loves to broadcast every detail of his gym obsession. “You mentioned it a while back, I’m sure. It’s a great sport.”

“You’ve tried it?” His eyes light up eagerly and all I want is to tell him yes.

“No.” I shake my head, wishing I’d lied because I swear I just watched his face drop. “I’m more of a low impact Pilates girl. I have no coordination for that other stuff. I just admire those who do.” I reach for the spoon again, fumbling to keep my hands occupied.

“It’s awesome. Every workout’s different. It’s exciting, you know? It keeps me guessing, keeps me challenged. It’s why I do it.” His eyes radiate with passion .

“So, you’re pretty spontaneous?” I ask enthusiastically, even though the thought of being so fills me with dread, because I, Sara Kirby, loathe spontaneity. Something about being left unprepared in whatever situation being spontaneous could thrust me into frightens me beyond reasonable comprehension.

“Beyond spontaneous,” he says.

I swallow.

This detail has the potential to set me back on course. I should be repulsed, because in no world could I possibly be attracted to a spontaneous CrossFitter.

Except, I am. Because he’s beautiful and single and right in front of me in this dark little room. And didn’t I promise Amber I’d put myself back out there?

Drew opens his mouth to say something, but he doesn’t get the chance, because the room is plunged into darkness…

I gasp, dropping the teaspoon to the floor. The metal clatters against the laminate, ringing into the blackness.

Footsteps move to the corner of the room, followed by a click which echoes throughout the confined space. Drew has flicked on a tall lamp, and now stands under its soft glow, radiating like a gold bullion.

We cast our eyes to the clock above the door, red digits flashing seven. It explains the sudden darkness—timers for when there’s no movement detected.

“Looks like we’re the only ones left.” Drew smiles with just the corner of his mouth.

My stomach flips, and I swear my cheeks have surpassed pink and now blaze pure scarlet. He moves to retrieve his coffee mug, taking a sip as he peers at me over the rim with a single dark brow raised.

He’s mere feet from where I stand. I could literally reach out and touch him. I could do a lot of things…