At ten to ten, I’m just putting the finishing touches on the catering display. A selection of baked goods are resting on shiny metal trays, next to a fruit platter I rearranged into a swirling pattern, and a few coffee dispensers surrounded by carefully stacked ceramic mugs. I stopped just short of folding the napkins into origami swans.

Images of fantasy man’s face still sway before my eyes. I feel like I’ve been rambling through the desert all my life before stumbling upon the sparkling waters of an oasis, and let me tell you, I am thirsty. I tried to keep myself from staring, but that didn’t stop me from stealing enough glances to notice that his eyes were the colour of a freshly poured macchiato, or that his body strained against his suit in all the right places.

Most of the right places. I didn’t let my eyes drop too low.

I found a portable sized espresso machine in the main compartment of the cart, and set it up on a stand that was tucked behind the banquet table. Judging from the confused expressions on people’s faces as they start to file into the room, I may have gone a little overboard with all the arrangements.

I take orders from a few people and offer to bring their drinks over once they’re ready. I’m finishing up an Americano when a grey-haired man who smells like cold cuts and cigarettes greets me with a raspy, “Morning, darling.”

“Good morning. Can I get you anything?”

I’ve noticed almost all the people at this meeting are men, men who seem to have noticed that I’m a twenty-two year-old woman. Most have been content to try putting the charm on while ordering drinks and check me out when they think I’m not looking, but this one seems more determined.

“You know how to work that machine all by yourself?”

Tell me he did not just say that.

I swallow down the impassioned feminist rant that is rising in my throat.

“Yes, I do know how to work an espresso machine,” I answer, as evenly as I can manage.

“That’s very impressive, young lady. I’ll have whatever kind of drink is your favourite. I’m sitting just over there.”

He gives me a shudder-inducing wink and heads over to the table. My eyes move to the spot he gestured towards and I freeze.

It’s him.

He’s facing away from me, but I have no doubt that it’s the impossibly attractive guy from the elevator. My hands start shaking as I top off the latte for Cold Cuts with some foam.

What the hell? I think to myself. You don’t even know his name. Get it together.

I take in a deep breath and bring the latte over to the table. The meeting has already started and I try to set the mug down as quietly as possible, avoiding Cold Cut’s eyes at all cost.

I can’t help but glance at the younger man on his left, though. I’m met with the same liquid brown gaze that instantly has my heart pounding as fast as it was in the elevator.

I back away and go to stand next to the food, unsure of whether I’m supposed to stay or not. I feel like a seventh grader with a crush. I met this guy all of an hour ago, and suddenly just the fact that I caught him looking at me is enough to have my stomach doing gymnastics. He can’t be that hot.

I steal another look at the back of him, at his perfectly disheveled hair and the trim shoulders of his suit.

Yes. Yes he can.

The fierce looking man at the head of table, whose speech I’ve caught enough of to place him as the head of the company, starts to introduce a new junior manager. He lists off a few accomplishments, and then mentions that the manager is also his son, Jordan.

I look around the table with a new interest. There are only a few men young enough to fit the role. He then asks his son to get up to introduce himself, and everyone at the table turns toward The God of Hotness.

Well, if he wasn’t already out of my league, he certainly is now.

He stays seated and silent long enough for things to get awkward, and then pushes his chair back to stand up. The room is so quiet that I can hear him draw in a breath, but nothing else follows. Cold Cuts clears his throat.

“Right. Right. Um.” Jordan launches into a minute of rambling thank you’s interspersed with lots of ‘um’s and ‘ah’s. His voice is jittery and hoarse, nothing like the confident joker I met in the lobby.

The meeting ends soon after and he’s one of the first people out the door. I stare after him, but my thoughts are interrupted by a whiff of sandwich meat.

“That was scrumptious. What do you call that kind of drink?”

Cold Cuts places his empty mug on the table next to me.

“That was a latte. It’s espresso topped with steamed milk and just a bit of foam.” I try not to sound like I’m explaining something to a kindergartener.

“Very cute. You must know a lot about coffee.”

I blink. “Yes. I’m a barista.”

He chuckles as if I’ve made a joke and walks away, giving me another one of those stomach churning winks as he does.

I narrowly avoid puking in my mouth and then start gathering up dishes. It takes about twenty minutes to get everything packed up in the Catering Mobile. Most of the baked goods weren’t even touched.

I’m about to wheel my way out when I notice a briefcase lying on the table. I pick it up, intending to drop it off at the reception desk as I leave, but then I see the name engraved on the bronze plate attached to the front.

Jordan Knox.

I look around, half expecting hidden cameras to be documenting some kind of prank TV show.

I run a finger over the letters and then realize what a creepy fangirl I’m being. Tucking the briefcase under my arm, I march the cart out of the room and walk up to the reception desk. The pinched nose woman behind it glances up from her computer screen but doesn’t say anything.

“This was left in the boardroom,” I say, placing the briefcase on the edge of the desk. “It has Jordan Knox’s name on it.”

“Oh. Bring it to the next floor up.”

Her eyes flick back to her computer screen.

If the briefcase had any other name on it, I’d consider reminding her that I don’t work for Knox Security and have a cafe to get back to. The second I saw what was written on the brass plate, though, I knew I was going to do something irrational.

Leaving the cart next to the elevator in the hopes that everyone who works here is too rich to bother stealing an espresso machine, I make my way up to the floor above. It opens onto a room pretty much identical to the one below, complete with a reception desk and sour-faced receptionist.

“I’m supposed to bring this to Jordan Knox,” I tell her, willing her not to question me.

“Mmm,” she answers languidly. “His office is just back there.”

I look towards a line of frosted glass doors.

“Got it,” I say, and speed-walk my way over before finding the one with his name on it.

I knock and no one answers. I knock again and then move my ear closer to the door, straining to hear anything on the other side.

Shit. What if he’s sobbing in there? Then again, I am very skilled in the art of consolation...

My corrupt mind has started coming up with a very graphic sympathy-turned-seduction scheme, when I lean too hard against the improperly closed door and it swings open.

The office is empty. I step inside and, without thinking about what I’m doing, push the door shut behind me.

The room is on the smaller side. Besides a few basic pieces of furniture, the only things to indicate it’s in use are a laptop and some files sitting on the desk. I should place the briefcase beside them and go.

Instead, I step towards the floor to ceiling window that makes up the back wall and look out at 19^th Street. The view from up here isn’t any less depressing than the one from Dark Brown. Maybe there’s a place where money can buy happiness, but around here, it can’t even get you a decent view.

I’m about to set the briefcase down when I notice a paper sticking out of the edge of one of the files. I think what catches my attention are the colours. The room is so monochrome it might as well be a scene out of a black and white film, but the inch of the illustration that I can see is red and orange.

I open the file and find a page covered in variations of the same image. It’s the login screen of what looks to be an app. I flip through the stack of papers and find dozens of designs for things like profile pages, settings screens, and notification options.

Then I hear the sound of the door handle turning and freeze, a proverbial deer in the headlights. Like many a deer that later finds itself mashed into the asphalt, I do something stupid. Instead of staying where I am and coming up with a way to explain myself to whoever it is that’s about to come in, I make a lightning fast decision to duck under the desk.

Footsteps enter the room and pause at the threshold. For a moment I think it’s a visitor who will go away after finding the office empty. Then they continue and someone sits down in the office chair, inches away from my hunched over body. I immediately regret every action that has led up to this moment of my life, including being born.

I hear Jordan—it must be Jordan— let out a few deep sighs, and I pray to any deity who may be listening that he’ll get up and leave.

His chair starts wheeling closer. Another inch and he’ll collide with my shin. I have to do something before that happens.

I start shifting around, getting ready to crawl out and announce myself before he can bump into me. His chair pauses on its way towards me and I hear him mutter “What the fu—” before my brain decides that yelling something idiotic at the top of my lungs is the best way to fix this situation.

“I SWEAR I’M NOT A STALKER.”

“uuUUUUCK?” The end of his exclamation cascades upwards through several octaves of alarm.

I manage to get my head out from under the desk, and find myself face to face with his crotch.

Interesting development, notes my very unhelpful brain.

I move my eyes from his crotch to his horrified face.

“I’m— I’m not. A stalker, that is. I wasn’t hiding. I mean, I was just— wait. Let me get out of here first.”

Wondering how I managed to get under the desk so quickly in the first place, I try to contort myself enough to escape. I scoot out with my legs still bent up to my earlobes and then try to haul myself to my feet by grabbing the top edge of the desk.

This, of course, overbalances me and I reach out for the only thing I can find to keep me from falling, which just so happens to be the armrests of Jordan’s chair. I catch my balance with my arms braced on either side of him, our faces inches apart.

A soft “Unph” sound escapes my lips.

He blinks.

“Hey,” he finally says.

“Hi,” I reply, my voice breathy.

Whatever temporary trance we’re in breaks, and I practically jump away from him and move to the far side of the desk.

“Is that my briefcase?” he asks, sounding more amused than angry.

I look down at the briefcase still clutched in one of my hands and nod.

“Yes. Yes it is. I found it, in the boardroom. They told me to bring it here. So I did. Then, uh, the files, they slipped...open, so I just happened to see— But then you came in! And I sort of panicked. I don’t know why, and then I thought you might leave but you didn’t and, well, here we are.”

I gingerly place the briefcase on the desk between us.

When I look back at him he’s smiling. He has a slightly crooked smile, one end of his mouth rising up just a bit higher than the other so that it comes off as more of a smirk. He runs his thumb along his jaw and I know if I open my mouth right now there’s no way I won’t start drooling.

“Thanks,” he says. “It’s not every day your missing briefcase gets personally delivered by the CEO.”

I can feel myself starting to smile. “I didn’t know janitors got such fancy offices around here.”

He leans forward to place his elbows on the desk. “I’m sure there’s lots about the secret life of a janitor that would surprise you.”

This is possibly the most ridiculous attempt at flirting I’ve ever been involved in, but I tell myself that the fact things have gone from me hiding under his desk to any kind of flirting at all has to be a meaningful accomplishment.

I arch my eyebrows in an attempt at coquettishness. “Like what?”

He’s about to answer, when there’s a knock at the door and in strides no other than Cold Cuts. He looks from Jordan to me and back, and then gives Jordan a very unsubtle wink.

“Ohhhhhhhhhhh.” He stretches the syllable out for so long I wonder if he realizes he’s speaking out loud. “Ah, Jordan, my boy, I’ll come back later. Hello again, Miss Barrrrista.”

Jordan stands up. “No, Ludo, it’s fine. She was just dropping off my briefcase.”

Cold Cuts, or Ludo, looks back and forth between us again and his mouth curls into a grin.

“So that’s what the kids are calling it these days.”

“LUDO.” Jordan looks about ready to throttle the guy.

“I should go,” I pipe up, and they both turn to look at me. “Nice to...meet you. Those are good, by the way.” I nod towards the pages of designs still open on the desk.

Jordan whips the file closed before saying thanks.

I move to exit the office and Ludo steps back to give me room, making a sweeping bow as I pass him.

What century was this guy born in?

I cross over to the elevators, moving as fast as I can without breaking into a run. I have to get out of this building before I manage to break some sort of world record for number of awkward encounters in a single day.

* * *

By the time 5 o’clock rolls around, I’m armed with a bottle of cleaning fluid and a wad of paper towel, making my way through the list of end of day chores at Dark Brown.

I’ve been on autopilot all afternoon, replaying my morning at the Knox building in my head. I start attacking the smudges on the windows with cleaning fluid, picturing the look on Jordan’s face as we stared at each other, my hands braced on either side of his body, pinning him into his chair.

While the thought of the sandwich-meat-scented Ludo insinuating Jordan and I were up to no good in the office is creepy enough to give me nightmares, it has led to a few...ideas.

I imagine where the conversation might have led if Ludo hadn’t come in. After a few more quips about janitors and CEOs, we’d drop all pretences and I’d place both my hands flat on Jordan’s desk, leaning forward onto my elbows until we were eye to eye. His lips would pull up into that smirk, and I’d tilt my head to the side as both an invitation and a challenge, daring him to make a move.

Which he would, of course. He’d reach out and trace the edge of my cheek with his fingertips, then grab me under the chin and pull his face to mine, his other hand reaching around the back of my head to knot itself in my hair, pulling tight enough to hurt as his mouth finally met with mine.

I realize I’ve been wiping the same spot on the window for the past several minutes, panting as I rub furious circles into the glass.

Great. I’m twenty-two and already behaving like a sexually frustrated housewife.

My work is interrupted by the sound of the bell over the front door. I turn to tell whoever it is that we’re closed for the day, when I see that it’s Marvin, one of the twin brothers who own Dark Brown. It still frustrates me to no end that while this place is staffed entirely by women, we all have to answer to men who only show up here once or twice a week and still think they know what’s best for the cafe.

“Hailey,” he greets me.

“Hello, Marvin.” I set down my cleaning supplies on a nearby table.

“Why don’t you sit down, Hailey? We need to talk.”

Alarm bells start ringing in my ears. Someone from Knox Security must have called. It was probably Jordan. I should have known he wouldn’t be fine with finding a caterer hiding under his desk. Who would be fine with that? He was pretending to play it cool so I wouldn’t freak out and stab him.

“Giselle called again.”

I try not to let out too obvious a sigh of relief as we both sit down at the closest table.

“It turns out she broke her leg,” Marvin continues, “and her arm.”

“Oh god,” I gasp. “Is she alright?”

“Yes, she’s fine. Well except for her leg, of course, and her arm. She fell down a staircase, but she’ll be alright. Only she won’t be able to come to work for quite awhile because she’s too, uh...”

“Immobile?” I supply.

“Yeah, immobile,” Marvin agrees. “So I’m promoting you to catering manager.”

My face falls. While I’ve spent half the day entertaining images of Jordan and I, I’ve also realized that I can never go back into the Knox building again. I made a complete fool of myself and have come to the conclusion that fantasy men are better left in fantasies. Seeing as he’s the son of the company’s head, I doubt he’d be easily avoidable if I took the job.

Besides, the Knox Security vibe was just as, if not more, depressing than the scene here at Dark Brown.

“Um, I might have to opt out on that one Marvin, if you don’t mind,” I tell him.

“You’ve been here longer than everyone except Lisa, and I can’t send her. I really need someone to fill this, Hailey,” he explains, before adding, “You’d get a raise. Three dollars more an hour.”

My reaction is a mix of outrage that Giselle was making three dollars more per hour than I am, and the realization that even without a math brain like my mom or sister, I can add up quick enough to know that an extra three dollars every hour would make a big difference in my life.

“I mean, if you really don’t have anyone else, I could—”

“Great!” Marvin cuts me off before I even finish. “It’s only a few meetings a week, anyways. I’ll get Lisa to fill you in on how to prep the cart tomorrow, and give you a copy of the catering schedule.”

He slides off his chair and heads out of the store, the bell above the doorway tinkling as he leaves.