3. Jude
Thursday, October 5th
My day is off to a great fucking start.
First impressions have never been my strong suit. I frequently find a way to mess things up, but this is probably one of the worst first impressions I’ve ever left someone with. Bar none.
I was running late, already irate with myself for snoozing my alarm this morning knowing I had to be in the office. My check engine light came on during my commute and I spilled my own coffee, which is currently pooled in the cupholders in the center console of my car.
So what do I do? Nearly throw myself through a closing elevator door and unintentionally scare a woman, causing her to wear her coffee. Like a complete idiot.
I was so humiliated, I didn’t know what else to do other than apologize, though it was admittedly half-assed because I was dumbfounded by how gorgeous that woman was.
If it had been anyone else, I would have offered to replace their coffee and make amends, but instead it was her.
Fucking hell. I froze.
I didn’t even catch her name. She and Colette know each other; maybe I could ask—no, why would I do that? I don’t need to know her name. The odds of seeing her again are slim and, considering we’re only in the office one day per week, the probability of running into her again is even slimmer.
She was pissed; I would be stupid not to notice. Who wouldn’t be in that situation? Oh no. What if I ruined her dress?
Her dress…
It looked like a homemade quilt. The kind you wrap yourself in with a mug of hot apple cider in hand. I could have gotten lost in her cornflower eyes, encircled by thick lashes. I wanted to feel those lashes brush against my cheek. In between mortifying glances, I admired the dusting of freckles across her nose, her lips a deepened pink, the rise and fall of her chest…
It made me swallow. Hard.
Her curly, dark brown hair was wild despite her attempts to tame it in a top knot. Some unruly curls had escaped, resting against her cheeks and her neck. I wanted to wrap one around my finger, tilt her head to the side and—
“Jude! Where do they have you set up?”
My fantasy is shattered as Daemon slaps me on the shoulder.
“Huh? Oh, yeah. I dunno. Haven’t checked,” I respond around the lump in my throat.
“Well, I did and you’re near me, brother!” he exclaims, motioning toward a row of unoccupied cubicles.
Daemon and I have known each other since college and worked together for a while now. Though we’ve moved positions at Wilder a few times, we somehow always end up on new projects with one another. Like the one we’re kicking off today.
I’ve been overseeing the impending implementation of this new system on the back end for over a year and it’s finally time for it to go live, but some departments aren’t happy about it. That’s the nature of change—there’s a lot of resistance. Par for the course.
I’m not being dismissive; it makes sense. Big changes like this can fail in a heartbeat without the right training, resources, technological support, all that good stuff. That’s where Daemon comes in.
He’s in charge of developing the trainings alongside department heads, and he does a great job. His charisma tends to ease the tension in a room full of resistant employees, plus he damn well knows what he’s talking about. Thorough is an understatement.
Finding my name tag, I flop my bag onto the desk and get my laptop mounted. Daemon leans against the desk, his legs crossed in front of him.
“I can’t wait for this shit show to kick off, Jude. The feedback from beta testing still haunts me.” He shudders.
I shrug. “It’s happening whether people like it or not.”
Daemon kicks my chair lightly. “Aren’t you just oozing positivity this morning. What crawled up your ass?”
“Just you,” I snarl, jabbing his thigh.
He winces but laughs. “Easy on the goods, brother. Fuck’s sake. Well, you clearly don’t want to talk, so I’ll leave you to manically prep for a meeting that is hours away. Then color-code your calendar or whatever else you do that calms the chaos.”
Daemon heads to his desk two down from mine and puts on his headset, plugged in. I try and turn my attention to the day ahead. My calendar is very much so color-coded. Meetings, trainings, working groups, professional development, presentations—they’re all penciled in with their own corresponding color and categorical tag. Being organized helps me feel less anxious.
I run a hand down my chest to flatten my tie, leaning back in my chair. In twenty minutes, I have a stakeholder meeting about the system kickoff. Then I have some time set aside to run reports and send them out to whoever needs them.
Lunch, scrum meetings, individual one-on-ones with a few of my team members, then the big kick-off at 3:00 p.m. sharp. The kickoff is nerve-wracking, sure, but it’s the aftermath that stresses me out.
Our new team assignments and structures are all situated, and I know myself and the other project managers are viewed as the ones who spearheaded this new system. I’ll be a target for the passive-aggressive complaints, the one being badgered with questions, the one absorbing the blame when an inevitable error occurs even though that’s out of my control.
Overall, I like my job. I find it fulfilling, but to be blunt, this is going to suck.
Those dark curls would look so good bunched in my fist.
Alright, that’s enough of that.
Feeling my dick harden, I hastily jaunt to the employee kitchenette around the corner. Christ, I need to get that woman out of my head. I grab a mug from the cabinet over the sink, drop in a bag of green tea, and fill it to the brim with hot water.
This has to be the nine-month dry spell fucking with me because there’s no reason why this woman has me wound so tight without uttering more than a few words to me, and condescending words at that.
I’m in a rut. A year ago, my longtime girlfriend moved out. Honestly, I wasn’t heartbroken over it as much as she would have liked me to be. For months, I had suspected she was seeing someone behind my back, but I never confronted her about anything.
One day, as I was planning a romantic getaway for us (the irony), she stomped into our bedroom and dropped a duffel bag at her feet. She told me she had fallen in love, for the first time, after what she thought was love between her and me.
His name is Brian and she met him on Tinder.
And that was that.
My instincts were right all along, and I was madder at myself for not trusting those instincts than I was at her. At the end of the day, she wasn’t wrong. I thought I was in love with her too, until I realized my life didn’t fall apart when she left. She didn’t take any pieces of me with her.
I don’t know. Maybe it’s time to get back out there. Or maybe I’m just thinking about this mystery woman who I know I won’t be able to get out of my head any time soon.
Covered in expensive coffee.
I wonder what her voice would sound like with my name on her tongue.
The headache starts behind my eyes, the left one specifically. It’s always lefty. My presentation is perfect, the system demonstration has been thoroughly tested, all wires are plugged into the right places. Nothing will go wrong; everything will go swimmingly.
I shrug my suit jacket off and drape it on the back of a chair at the head of the room. The door swings open as Daemon waltzes in, carrying his own laptop.
“Hey Jude,” he says, taking a seat beside me. “Don’t let me down.”
My eyes narrow in his direction as I roll up each sleeve to my elbows. “Not today, Daemon. Not now. I might lose my temper.”
“I see your mood hasn’t improved since this morning,” he says.
My fingers fly across my keyboard, capturing a few last-minute notes for this slide. I don’t want to forget to show an example of the new team structures. I’m in a perfectly good mood. It”s a lie I tell myself as my anxiety burrows somewhere in my chest.
Daemon starts to sing “Hey Jude” by The Beatles, but I cut him off.
“Seriously? And are there no other songs with the name ‘Jude’ in them?” I snarl.
He rounds the table and stands next to me, setting up his own laptop with only five minutes to spare. My anxiety spikes a bit. “Not that I know of. I’ll check the good ole World Wide Web next time for some inspiration because that sounded like more of a request.”
My palms are starting to sweat as I loosen my tie. Between the two of us, Daemon has always been the one with the best composure. Public speaking is a trigger of mine and it’s something I’ve had to continuously work on throughout my career.
It’s unavoidable in my job, which makes days like today draining. Considering how I started my day, the possibility of something going wrong feels like it’s doubled.
But it’s fine.
I’m calm as a cucumber.
“Your vision going fuzzy?” Daemon asks.
As I turn toward him to tell him off, I realize his expression is one of concern. His brown eyes have softened, searching my face. He gives me shit, but he knows the pressure of big presentations and having to speak to a room full of people is hard for me.
I sigh, slapping his shoulder once. “No, and thanks. I’m alright.”
“If you’re sure. Only fools play it cool, brother, or so I”ve heard.” He smiles and dodges as I swing at his arm.
By 3:05 p.m., people are still trailing in. It’s easy enough to jump from meeting to meeting on Teams. I knew I should have allotted an extra five minutes for everyone to actually walk to the conference room.
Great. I’ve put myself behind schedule.
The chitchat doesn’t subside until Daemon hits the lights, signaling the start of our presentation. Well, maybe this won’t be so bad. Everyone seems to be cheerful enough.
Scanning the faces in front of me, I’m disappointed that I don’t see her. I hope I never have to see her again and yet I want an opportunity for a do-over. Colette is sitting near the door, the seat next to her is vacant.
Daemon strides to the front of the room. “Thank you all for making the time to be here today. This is our first official on-site workday, so Jude here and I thought it was the perfect time to force you all to listen to us blab on about new systems, new teams, blah blah. Department heads, you didn’t hear that. Now of course, this isn’t everyone at Wilder who makes what we do possible, but we do have Web Design and Development, Marketing, Multimedia, Customer Support…”
Everyone laughs in unison and Daemon continues his extensive introduction, then dives into the system demonstration. Good; he’s giving me a buffer.
In the dark conference room, with everyone’s faces illuminated by the oversized monitor, I almost missed her. She slinks into the seat next to Colette, quiet as can be, and gives her arm a gentle squeeze. So she’s in one of the few departments that need to use or know about this new system.
Shit.
My heart starts to pound painfully in my ears. I shuffle my weight between my feet to center myself. Stuffing my hands in my pockets, I laugh along with everyone else while Daemon cracks a joke I didn’t hear.
Then her face falls when she sees me.
She doesn’t look angry; she looks horrified.
“And now I’ll leave you all in the hands of Jude Carr, who will discuss next steps regarding the new teams and answer any questions that arise,” announces Daemon.
I clear my throat and rub the nape of my neck. “Couldn’t ask for a better introduction. Thanks, Daemon.”
He hands me the remote and I click to the next slide. She’s shuffling in her seat as I step forward.
When I move, she moves. There’s an unspoken push and pull. It has to be in my head.
Fuck, I need to get a grip.
The slide on the screen is titled Team Structures and Role Clarity.
“With the new system in place, we’re doing a bit of restructuring. You were all sent the new development assignments last week. Know that every team will be assigned a project manager, at least for the first month, to ensure that developments are optimally progressing using the new system. For example, I am a project manager, so I will be working with a few of you. In fact, here is a breakdown of my new team as an example. You all get to find out first.”
The following slide lists a group of names, including my own, with their corresponding job titles. I personally haven’t worked with anyone on my new team before. Then a thought knocks the wind out of me.
What if she’s on my new team and I don’t even know it? She’s squinting at the names and then her jaw hangs open. I do a double take, trying to keep my attention on the words spilling out of my mouth instead of on her petrified gaze.
She’s on my team.
I fucking know it.
“Before the end of day today, you’ll hear from your new project manager and connect with the rest of your team as well. Any questions before we let you all go a little early?” I ask.
I need this to end so I can have a full-blown anxiety attack in the privacy of the men’s room instead of here in front of half the company.
Someone somewhere takes mercy on me because no one raises their hand. It’s painfully silent, which I take as my cue to conclude this hellish meeting.
“Well, on that note, we’re done. It was great to see you all in person. Please let me or Daemon know if you have any questions. We will be in touch with the department heads. Drive safely!” I exclaim.
The room is filled with obligatory applause and then people pair off, resuming their conversations. Trying not to alarm Daemon or anyone else, I carefully prop my hand on the table in front of me and loosen my tie a bit more. All I can hear is the hum of distant conversation. I take a few deep breaths, smiling weakly at colleagues as they exit.
Daemon raps me on the back but speaks quietly so no one else can hear. “Nice work, brother. Take your time. I’ll pack up your stuff; just stay upright, yeah?”
By the time I get home, I am devoid of thought. My brain is so fried, I only take off one shoe and I deposit my keys in the sink instead of the hook beside the front door. It’s the exceedingly loud, startling sound of metal on metal that pulls me out of my stupor.
What a fucking day.
The anxiety that nestled its way into my chest earlier is now sitting painfully in the pit of my stomach. My appetite is nowhere to be found, which is very inconvenient because I bought everything I needed to make the Mega Cheese tonight.
When my sister, Cassie, and I were kids, our dad used to make this droolworthy grilled cheese sandwich. He used a few different cheeses: Muenster, white cheddar, Gruyere, sometimes Gouda. Then he would dice up some onion and cook it in brown sugar and oil. Slap all those cheeses together with some thyme, rosemary, and salt and pepper, then fry to perfection. In all our youthful, creative wisdom, we called it the Mega Cheese.
Alright, I stand corrected. My appetite is coming back with a vengeance.
I take the ingredients out of the fridge, butter up a pan, and turn on the stove. While I retrieve the necessary spices from the overhead cabinet, my mind wanders to silky, brown curls and frowning, plump lips. I am far too turned on for no good goddamned reason. My dick twitches uncomfortably in my pants.
Jesus Christ, it’s like I’m a teenager again.
This is ridiculous. This insane attraction has occupied my mind all day and I don’t know why. There’s just something about her.
Before I left the office, I looked up every person who will be on my team. I didn’t bother before because I’d meet them eventually; it wasn’t important. I had to know though. I needed to know who she was. Knowing her name made me think I could somehow prepare for the next month of working with her.
Her name is Lucienne Amato.
In reality, I probably won’t need to interact with her that much, which simultaneously irritates me and gives me a sense of relief. She’s a web designer and a lot of her work is independent and client-focused. That means I won’t need to involve myself too often.
Shit. I wonder how she feels about the new system launching.
Maybe that look of complete horror and disdain wasn’t directed at me. Maybe she’s angry about the changes. I’ll keep telling myself that; it makes me feel better.
Checking in every now and then on development progress means I can keep my distance. She will probably be grateful for that since I’m the asshole who made her practically shit herself in an elevator first thing in the morning.
Her employee photo in the contact book was…spellbinding. It’s the only word that even begins to capture how beautiful she is. Those eyes dazzled even in a photo, her face framed by unrestrained curls poking every which way. She wasn’t smiling. She was all business, but I get the sense there is an underlying spark that wasn’t captured.
Maybe it’s something she keeps locked away.
I wonder what a smile looks like on the face of Lucienne Amato.