So That Happened （Or How to Completely Embarrass Yourself in Front of a Hot Biker）
Quick question: Is there a point where you’ve googled “how to move interstate without telling anyone” so many times that it shows up as a suggested search?
Asking for a friend. A friend who had an actual conversation with Hot Neighbour (aka “Savage”) and may need to leave the country for her own safety.
New Zealand is nice this time of year, right?
They probably don’t have hot bikers there. Just sheep. Safe, non-dimpled sheep.
Me
CODE RED. NEED EVACUATION PLAN.
Megan
What did you do?
Me
Got trapped in the lift with him.
Megan
OMG
Me
FOR SEVEN MINUTES.
Megan
This is like the start of every romance novel ever.
Me
THIS ISN’T HELPING.
Megan
Did you swoon?
Me
No.
Megan
Liar.
Okay, deep breath. Let me start from the beginning.
It was this morning. 7a.m. I was in my “I actually have an important meeting” outfit ie.
the one that says, “I’m a serious professional who definitely doesn’t spend her nights stalking her neighbour on social media.
” I’d even put on mascara. Both eyes. I was winning at life.
Mrs Primrose actually gave me an approving nod when she saw me leaving my apartment, which is basically like getting knighted by the Queen of Building Gossip.
Side note: Last week at Wine Club (yes, I eavesdrop through my air vent, no judging allowed) she was telling everyone how she’s convinced I’m either a secret government hacker or “one of those crypto people” because of all my late-night typing.
If only she knew I was actually just rage-coding because Johnson keeps submitting patches that look like they were written by a caffeinated cockatoo.
Then the lift broke down. Again. With both of us in it.
Yes, you read that right. BOTH OF US. In a metal box.
That wasn’t moving. While I was wearing heels that made my legs look amazing but will probably cause permanent spine damage.
And while he was standing dangerously close, smelling like leather and spice and the promise of a night I wouldn’t come back from the same.
Here’s a transcript of what actually happened vs what my brain was doing:
Him: “Might be a while, sweetheart.”
My mouth: “Yeah, looks like it.”
My brain: malfunctioning noises
What I texted Megan immediately after I got out of the lift:
Me
HELP, HE CALLED ME SWEETHEART WHILE LOOKING LIKE THAT!
Megan
Like what?
Me
Like THAT!
Megan
That’s a super helpful description.
Me
Muscles dimples eyes xcawqzmg
Megan
I see.
Please note: I do not think she did, in fact, see.
Back to the transcript of the seven minutes in the lift:
Him: “You’re the tech genius from 4A, right?”
My mouth: “I wouldn’t say genius...”
My brain: HE KNOWS WHERE I LIVE AND WHAT I DO???
What I wanted to say: “I also know three different ways to hack a traffic light system but that’s probably not first date conversation material wait who said anything about dates oh god stop thinking.”
Him: leans against wall in a way that is lethal to a woman “Heard you talking code on your balcony last week. Sounded pretty genius to me.”
My mouth: “Oh, that was just—wait, you can hear me on my balcony?”
My brain: DELETE ALL EVIDENCE OF SINGING TAYLOR SWIFT IMMEDIATELY
Him: actual smile with actual dimples “Only when you’re swearing at your laptop.”
My mouth: “That laptop deserved it.”
My brain: IS THIS FLIRTING? ARE WE FLIRTING? WHAT IS HAPPENING?
Mental note: Create spreadsheet analysing smile-to-dimple ratio and its correlation to my ability to form coherent sentences.
And then? THEN ? He laughed. It wasn’t just a chuckle.
It was a full-on laugh that did things to my insides that I refuse to analyse without a psychology degree and several glasses of wine.
(Note to self: Do NOT tell Megan about this or she’ll make Brad psychoanalyse my “response to masculine auditory stimuli” or whatever his thesis is about this week.)
But wait, it got better/worse.
The lift started working again after exactly seven minutes (yes, I counted; what else was I supposed to do while trying not to stare at his arms?
And yes, Karen from Accounting, I WILL make a spreadsheet about this later).
As the doors opened, he put his hand on the small of my back to let me exit first.
Him: “After you, darlin’. Try not to murder any laptops today.”
Me: temporarily forgets how walking works
What the Wine Club definitely saw through the building manager’s office peephole where I know they meet for gossip gathering: Me, stumbling out of the elevator like a baby giraffe while Australia’s most dangerous man steadied me with those hands that could probably crush concrete.
Their current theory, according to my air vent intel: I’m either his handler for a top-secret mission or we’re filming a reality show. Mr Weatherby is convinced it’s both.
UPDATE: I just got home from work and there’s a note on my door that says, “If the laptop gives you trouble again, I know people.” WITH A WINKY FACE.
A WINKY FACE.
From a man they call SAVAGE.
Me
MEGAN, HE LEFT ME A NOTE.
Megan
What kind of note?
Me
WITH A WINKY FACE.
Megan
That’s it, I’m calling Brad.
Me
DON’T YOU DARE.
Megan
Then stop using caps lock.
Me
I CAN’T, IT’S STUCK LIKE MY brAIN.
Current status: Googling “can you die from sexual tension” and “what does a winky face mean from a biker”. Also “do dimples count as illegal weapons in Queensland” and “how to act normal after lift incident (urgent).”
Also, I’m officially changing this blog name to “How to Have a Complete Mental Breakdown Over a Man in a Leather Jacket” because that seems more accurate. Alternative title: “Ways to Embarrass Yourself in Front of a Hot Biker: A Comprehensive Guide by Someone Who Should Know Better.”
P.S. To the building maintenance team who will inevitably review the lift security footage to figure out why it stopped: I was NOT staring at his arms the entire time. I was conducting a very important structural analysis of the lift walls. For safety purposes.
P.P.S. Does anyone know if it’s possible to tell if someone can see you pacing on your balcony at night?
Asking for a friend. That friend is me. I’m the friend.
Also, to the Wine Club members who’ve started taking notes on my balcony appearances: I can see you pretending to water your plants at midnight.
Those are plastic plants, Mrs P. I’m a disaster, not blind.
P.P.P.S. Just overheard the Wine Club upgrading their theory from “secret reality show” to “undercover romance novel research.” Mr Weatherby swears he saw a camera crew. It was just the food delivery guy, but bless his conspiracy-loving heart.
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