5. Dustin
Dustin
At exactly six-thirty in the evening, my day is finally complete, and I gently close my laptop lid, packing up to leave. Most of the DropTop employees have already left for the day. I watched them from the corner of my eye as they filed past the all-glass conference room, gawking at me. Probably hoping I'm not here for their jobs.
And I'm really not. That's not my decision to make. My job here, as I have explained to everyone I've met with today, is to introduce their new parent company and figure out the best place to fit them within the existing infrastructure of Atmosphere. Sure, there's bound to be some friction and high emotions. Switching out Slack for Teams, migrating from G Suite to MS Office, planning the merge of their internal documentation database to ours. None of that is immediate, though, and none of that will happen this month.
Like I've said so many times, I'm just here to figure out the puzzle of DropTop. This is the part of my job I love: solving problems. I've always been a puzzle guy, and I get to expertly slide the pieces around to find the perfect fit. Except there is one piece that's nagging at the back of my mind: Brooke.
Brooke Dunne. She must have gotten married at some point, though I didn't see a ring on her finger. Maybe that's why I couldn't find her on social media?
I shut down that line of thought very quickly. This is a professional working relationship, and there is no reason to complicate it further. She is simply one of the hundreds of new Atmosphere employees. So simple. I'm here, I'll do my job, and I'll leave. No strings attached.
"Dustin?" A familiar feminine voice interrupts my thoughts.
God dammit. "Hi, Brooke."
"Uh, hi. I wanted to, um, apologize. For how I treated you yesterday," Brooke mumbles. "It wasn't fair. And, uh, if you want me to declare our past… you know… to HR? I've got it drafted already."
I sit back down and gesture to the chair on the other end of this ridiculous post-modern conference table. I bet it costs as much as my mortgage every month, if not more. "Please, sit."
She slumps into the chair and looks at me with guilty eyes. "I can send it—"
"—Not necessary," I cut her off, raising a hand. "That was over a decade ago. And, technically, I am not your boss. I am here to seamlessly fit DropTop into Atmosphere. We do not have a conflict of interest—unless you want to sabotage my work. Do you?"
"No!" Brooke blurts out immediately. "I mean, no, of course not. I just… yeah. I wanted to apologize. So, like, sorry."
"Apology accepted."
She's silent for a beat, staring at me expectantly. Unsure of what she wants, I rise again and head toward the glass door.
"Don't you have anything to say to me, too?"
What? "No. Apology accepted. Let's move on, please. Have a good night."
"Ugh, seriously?" She stands as well and cocks out her hip, deep lines forming between her brows.
"Yes, seriously. Please enjoy your evening." I quickly exit the room and walk with purpose down the hall. She follows me, her sneakers squeaking on the trendy concrete floor.
"You're not going to apologize?" She overtakes me and plants herself firmly in my way.
"For what?" I shake my head.
"For stealing my cupcake!" Brooke pokes me in the chest with a perfectly manicured light pink fingernail. I take a step back and clench my jaw.
"Absolutely not. You started it. Now, if you'll excuse me, I would like to leave ," I grit out .
"Oh, my god. You're such an asshole. You started it, and you stole my cupcake!"
Pushing past her, I scoff. The elevator is so close, and the studio apartment is only a few blocks away. I can stop at a bodega and grab a sandwich for dinner. This is a ridiculous argument, and I refuse to participate. She storms after me, sputtering and fuming.
I make it to the elevator, and miraculously, it opens immediately. I slam the "close door" button over and over, trying to keep her from entering, but she's a force of nature just like she always has been.
"You stole from me, asshole," she snarls as the doors close us into the metal box. "You—of all people on this Earth—you show up in my friend's shop and then at my job. You stole from me and I was the bigger person—I apologized to you! Why are you so allergic to saying you're sorry?"
"Allergic?" I sputter. "Oh, I'm sorry . So sorry that your shitty cupcakes didn't sell out immediately— what do you even use? Box mix? Fucking unbelievable."
Her eyes flash with fury, and she stomps over to the corner. I can't quite make out what she's saying under her breath, but I imagine it's unpleasant.
I tried, you know? I really tried to put our past behind us and move forward—professionally—by sticking to my job. My dentist is going to be irate at the pressure I'm putting on my molars by grinding my teeth. She refuses to play nice; she refuses to leave well enough alone. She pokes, and she prods, and she makes demands—just like she used to.
I used to love that about her. Now? She's the most irritating woman on the face of the planet. With her stupid ponytail and hoop earrings and that adorable up-turned nose that I used to kiss as often as she'd let me. And the smattering of freckles all over her cheeks. Disgusting. Absolutely not attractive. Not in the slightest.
The doors slowly slide open when we reach the ground floor. Brooke storms out and I reluctantly follow her. I mean, I'm not following her. I am simply returning to the apartment and she's in my way. She hasn't said another word to me, which is good, because I'm in no fucking mood to chat after her little hissy fit.
My stomach growls, and I remember I still haven't had a real meal. I slip my phone out of my pocket and try to find something nearby. I'm in New York City, for fuck's sake, there just has to be a salad in the vicinity.
Whump.
My phone clatters along the floor as I collide with a somewhat short, warm body with a furious face. Fucking unbelievable. Losing my balance, I grab at anything to break my fall. Unfortunately, the "anything" turned out to be Brooke. She topples over and pins me to the floor, both of us groaning in pain .
This is the worst day. The absolute worst day. I don't care that her soft curves are pressing me into the floor. I don't care that she smells like the world's best bakery. I don't care that she matured into an absolutely gorgeous woman.
But I very much care that her face is turning red as she winds up to yell at me some more. "Why the fuck don't you watch where you're going?"
"Me?" I shove her to the side and scramble to my feet. "Takes two to tango, Brooke. Aren't you big-city folk supposed to be sooo savvy? You're walkin' here and all that?"
"I—you! You made me forget my bag! Your asshole behavior got me—ugh!" She throws her hands up in the air and stabs a finger at the elevator button to recall the car.
"Sucks to suck, Brooky-poo." I grin. "See you tomorrow, bright and early!"
With that woman pissed off to hell and back but no longer in my personal space, I feel a bit lighter. I might grab a salad with fried chicken on the side. Yeah, that sounds great. A perfect treat to pick myself up.
I don't want to know how much this apartment costs Atmosphere every month. Yes, it's a studio, but the combined kitchen/living/sleeping area just drips with luxury. Italian marble counters gleam under the trendy Edison bulb pendant lights. Designer rugs cover the expertly polished hardwood flooring. And the bed is massive—it has to be bigger than a king. I don't know what comes after a king, besides California king. If I recall correctly, California kings aren't necessarily bigger, just longer.
My belly is full of an exorbitantly expensive salad. The bougie restaurant I found didn't have fried chicken, but that's for the best. It would be silly of me to go whole hog on fried food. The only thing left for me to do today is take a steamy shower and snuggle into that massive bed. It really is over the top: I'm only one man. But sprawling out on expensive sheets? I'll never say no to that.
The bathroom is even more decadent. Floor-to-ceiling marbled tile (white with grey veins, of course) and shiny brass hardware give off an air of excellence that I'm sure Atmosphere is paying out the nose for. Steam fills the room as I turn on the water. The pressure is perfect, not too soft, not too hard. The mirror must have some kind of heating element as well because it stays perfectly clear. I huff out a weak chuckle as I quickly disrobe and step into the glass shower stall.
Stress melts away as the heated water pours over my body. I never forget my toiletries on a trip like this, but the company has fully stocked the bathroom. The body wash is labeled "Jade and Pine." Not quite sure what jade smells like, but my skin practically drinks up the moisture. It's all so lovely, but an annoying little voice pops into the back of my mind.
Asshole behavior!
Why are you so allergic to saying you're sorry?
You stole my cupcake!
My shoulders tense, and a sigh rumbles out of my lungs. I really did want to get through this month with my professional dignity intact. I mean, I still do—what am I saying? Ugh, I can't believe Brooke has me all discombobulated like this. After all these years, she's still as fiery as I remember. God, I used to love that about her. But back then, I was never on the receiving end.
Her furious expression lingers in my mind as I slip into bed. I may smell fresh as a daisy—or as fresh as jade and pine, whatever—but I just feel… off. Brooke is the problem, not me. But if she wants to play dirty? I can, too.