3. Why Does She Hate Me?
“Fuckity ouch. Goddammit,” I mutter to myself as I hold the thumb I just slammed in a drawer. This is the third time this week I’ve injured myself, each one because Meredith Lopez-McMillan walked by and gave me a cranky little eyebrow lift. Or because my mind trailed back to The Kiss to End All Kisses.
Her painfully lovely face is hard to read, but I think the small smirk means this is a game to her. Or she hates me. Or I annoy her, which is the most likely explanation. Not everyone can handle this much glowy awesomeness, although I don’t feel so awesome when my thumb isn’t the only thing that’s throbbing.
My friend and Base member, Colin, hands me an ice pack from the freezer. “Thanks, dude. I can’t believe I did it again.”
“I can.” He pats me on the shoulder and gives me a grin. “Ever since she started here you’ve been a danger to yourself and others. I honestly don’t know how you’re still functioning.” I want to argue, but he’s not wrong.
After I finished my master’s in rhetoric and communications from the local college, I landed this job. It’s perfect for the moment, allowing me to pay down my student loans, be close to my family, and give me the space to figure out what I want to do next.
Meredith started in December, and now that The Base has the resources, I’ve caught the podcasting bug.
Or maybe I have the podcasting bug because it would mean working closely with the slightly scary, very beautiful, always intimidating Meredith. Now if I could just convince her that I’m delightful, I’d be able to stop injuring myself. I’m not usually this distracted.
Everybody usually loves me, especially here at The Base. I keep them supplied in snacks and printer toner. There’s always fresh coffee, Friday Fun Day, and an ear to bend. Yesterday, one member told me I was a joy to be around.
News flash—it wasn’t Meredith.
“Yoo-hoo.” Colin snaps his fingers in front of my face. I blink out of my wandering thoughts and massage my aching thumb. Meredith’s talking to Carla, a member who’s been here since Sylvie opened the place. I watch Meredith take a bite of a cookie Carla gave her, and I restrain a groan. I wish this place had an oven. I’d bake everybody some cookies and watch Meredith eat one. Colin snaps again.
“Sorry, I was thinking about cookies.”
“Is that a euphemism for someone’s boobs?” His emphasis on ‘someone’ makes me want to tackle him to the ground. But that would be like a greyhound trying to take on a bear. My average height and lean build would be no match for him. I have muscle, just not brick shithouse muscle. Does Meredith like greyhounds? She’s a couple inches shorter than me, and that seemed to work perfectly for the kiss she laid on me New Year’s Eve. At least I think so.
That kiss...fuck it was the hottest thing I’ve ever experienced, and that’s saying something because I once saw Cher in concert. I turn to Colin. “How do I get Meredith to stop hating me?”
His face turns sympathetic, and he shrugs. “I don’t think she hates you. She’s like that with everyone.”
“Not with Sylvie. Or you. Or close-talker Tony.” I wave my hand around, gesturing at the open-plan work area where most people are focused on their laptops.
“I was trying to spare your feelings. Yeah, I don’t know why she hates you.” I deflate a little. I haven’t told Colin about The Kiss. That belongs to me and Meredith, even if dozens of people probably witnessed it. No one has mentioned it to me so sometimes I wonder if it really happened.
Meredith makes her way to the kitchen, and I resist the urge to duck behind the counter so she doesn’t catch me staring. The only thing stopping me is Colin standing next to me. She gives him a small smile in greeting and opens the cabinet containing the coffee mugs.
Instead of pulling down one mug she takes five out of the cabinet and lines them up on the counter. She takes a step back and crosses her arms over her chest, assessing the mugs like they’re contestants in a beauty pageant. Now I’m picturing the mugs with little tiny sashes and a snort leaves me.
Meredith gifts me with a scowl that I’ll cherish at least until this afternoon when she’ll probably honor me with another one. She turns back to the mugs. Each is a different color with its own cute or funny saying on it. I had more fun than I should have picking them out.
“Which will it be today, Meredith?” Colin asks with a hint of tease in his voice. She doesn’t turn around but hushes him with the raise of her hand. She hovers her hand back and forth over the selection until she picks up a purple one that says, “And yet, despite the look on my face you’re still talking,” fills it with black coffee and puts away the loser mugs.
“What do you think her selection criteria is?” Colin’s not even bothering to whisper. Our running commentary has become part of this near-daily ritual.
“I don’t know, man—I just trust the process.”
Meredith finally turns around, gives us both a mysterious smile, and steps out of the kitchen.
I grab my own coffee cup and head back to my desk on the other side of the first floor. I watch Meredith make her way up the stairs to her office, and I turn away before I’m caught staring at her ass.
My shoulders relax as I close the door to the control room, and I collapse in my chair. It was one fucking kiss on New Year’s, but I can’t get Stuart and his firm lips out of my head. Every time I smell pineapple my panties get a little damp. Everybody kisses a stranger at some point in their life, especially on December thirty-first after watching the most romantic marriage proposal ever. It’s just fact. Not that Stuart’s a stranger, but he’s definitely not a friend.
He’s too much, with all his eager friendliness, over-the-top peppiness, considerate kindness, pineapple and fabric softener smell, and surprisingly strong arms. And the way he looks at me, like I’m a safe he wants to crack. It makes me itchy.
I open my laptop and get to work editing some audio for a member, but my focus is shot to hell. I glance down at my chipped dark blue nail polish which is a near-perfect match of Stuart’s blue and green plaid shirt and navy suspenders today.
What kind of twenty-something guy wears suspenders? And black-framed glasses that look like he stole them off Buddy Holly. And why is it so fucking cute? A tiny immature part of me wants to snap his suspenders to see how he reacts.
But he’d probably take that as flirting, and I would never flirt with Stuart. That one kiss doesn’t count. Except it kind of does, because it plays on repeat in my head and nothing I’ve tried quiets it.
My face flames when I think about how his arms wrapped around me after a split second of shock. Why does he have to be the perfect height for kissing? And what else are those rolled-up sleeves and plaid shirts hiding?