Catarina

I had to climb from Barrett’s bed at five A.M. to hustle out of his apartment building, drive home, and arrive at the office by seven. I’m sleepy as hell from our activities last night, but staying awake was worth it.

I’m blinking tired eyes and nursing my first cup of coffee when he arrives fifteen minutes behind me. The office is quiet—save a few early arrivals in the back corner. And Mia, who arrives at sunup, usually stays behind closed doors until at least nine.

“Hey,” I greet Barrett as he walks buy.

“Hey, Kitty Cat.” He looks as tired as I am, but incredible. His hair is mussed, reminding me of having my hands in it. His smile barely there, likely due to my attempting to kiss it off his face in the wee hours of this very morning.

“You’re early.” Every inch of me leans toward him, my elbows on my desk, my fingers linked to keep from reaching. One night with the man and already my greedy body wants seconds. Or would that be thirds? Fourths?

It’s understandable how one could lose count.

“I didn’t get much sleep,” he drawls, swaggering over to me, his black leather bag in hand. “Went to bed with this wild vixen.” He pauses to whistle. “She wore me out.”

I’m beaming. And blushing. And I’m considering dragging him to Marge’s abandoned office and showing him my vixen side all over again.

Until Mia emerges from her office looking like Gollum crawled out of the cave.

“Mia.” I straighten in my chair, totally busted.

“About your email.” She’s frowning. Not good. I hammered out a request for an extension the second I set foot in here. Before I even poured a cup of coffee. I had hoped she would’ve put off checking her email until later in the day. Guess not.

“You both need extensions? Is it too much to ask that I foot the bill while you party all weekend, and receive one measly column in return?” She flashes a look to me and then to Barrett, her eyes narrowing in consideration. Before she’s overcome by the pheromones that have leaked into the office like carbon monoxide, he speaks up.

“It’s my fault, Mia. Catarina’s half is done.” I round my eyes, communicating Shut up! but he simply gives me a lazy smile. “She’s covering for me.”

“He had to babysit his nephew unexpectedly,” I blurt. Mia’s expression morphs from angry to curious. “He, uh, he told me about it. That’s how I know.”

Oh, yeah. That was smooth.

“I can’t give you until three P.M. as requested,” she says sharply. “Noon.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Barrett says.

Mia lets out a little “hmph” like she’s offended at the “ma’am” but I notice she fluffs her hair before trudging back to her office. The door closes behind her and I slump in my chair.

“Can I help?” I ask. “Pour you a cup of coffee? Do it for you?”

“Not necessary. Gotta get to work, Kitty Cat.” Then he gives me a wink that sends my heart aflutter. “You look pretty today. I like you in black.”

I pull my shoulders, draped in a fifties-style little black dress that skims down my body to just below my knees. My incredibly sexually satisfied knees. When he sits and unpacks his laptop, I stand and shuffle to the break room, deciding to fetch him a cup of coffee anyway.

---

By quarter after eleven (aka forty-five minutes till deadline), I’m ignoring my work and staring worriedly at Barrett over the top of my laptop. He’s pecking away, unbelievably slowly, and then he swipes the touchpad and looks at something, lingers there for a while, and then goes back to hunting and pecking.

I force my attention back to the article I was reading promising “wild dating ideas” but it doesn’t hold said attention for long. Barrett folds his hands at the back of his head and stretches, elbows wide and biceps flexing. He closes his eyes and blows out a breath. A subtle head shake precedes him standing up.

When he comes my direction, I put my fingers on the keyboard and start tapping random keys. Google doesn’t know what to make of my gobbledygook.

“Kitty Cat.”

“Yes. Hi, Fox. What’s up?”

“Want some lunch? I have to get out of here.” He pulls a hand over his face and shoots a longing glance at the window. I shoot a pointed glance at the clock.

“It’s almost 11:30.”

“Right. Lunchtime. I’m starving.” He trickles a look down to my chest and I squirm in my seat at the memory of what he was starving for a few hours ago. Me.

I shake off the X-rated thought and focus on the here and now. “You only have thirty minutes to finish your column. Are you close?”

“Sure.” He laughs.

I don’t laugh. I’m not amused.

“Come on. Lunch.” He tilts his head toward the exit and starts away from me. “My treat.”

“Barrett!”

“I’m going. With or without you.” There’s no playful smile. He’s serious.

“Wait.” I slip my bare feet into my high heels and jog toward him as quickly as my tight-around-the-knees skirt allows. He watches my approach, his eyes hooded.

“I like that dress.”

I ignore the suggestive husk in his voice.

“I know I’ve been acting like a besotted idiot in every other realm of our relationship,” I whisper, sending a cautious glance around the empty-ish office, “but I refuse to let you walk out before your column is done. Mia said noon.”

“It’s going to take longer than that.” He shrugs. Shrugs!

“It…it can’t!”

“Well. It is.” He turns away again.

“Fox, you can’t leave when you’re on deadline!” My voice is high and desperate, but the inflection doesn’t slow him down.

“Watch me.” He punches the elevator button. I take one step to chase after him before stopping myself. I said I wouldn’t act besotted. I owe myself the decency of keeping that promise.

Once he’s inside the elevator, waving goodbye for effect, I turn back to my desk and try and think of an excuse that will fly with our harried editor.

Or…

I could try and hack his password and finish it for him. The clock says I have twenty-seven minutes. That’s plenty of time to review what he wrote, polish it, and email it to Mia.

Depending on how quickly I can figure out his password.

I hustle to Barrett’s cubicle and sit in his chair. I barely contain a “Yay!” in celebration when I discover that his screen saver is on, but the screen isn’t locked.

Hallelujah!

Hurrying, I begin reading the words before me, realizing after a few sentences that I’m reading the starchy, dry paragraph from an e-book and not the Word document Barrett was working on. I tap the screen, scrolling to the top of the page.

Dyslexia and You.

I tap a few pages back, noting several highlighted sections. This chapter is called “In the Workplace.”

I close the book’s window to find a menu listing other e-books sitting behind it.

Writing with Dyslexia.

How to Thrive with Dyslexia.

Dr. Fields’s Guide to Adult Dyslexia.

Realization dawns and shame heats my face. Every rude comment I said or thought about Barrett’s skill or writing style or slow typing lines up in front of me like a firing squad.

My attempts to help were met with nos. Not because of stubbornness, but likely embarrassment. I made it a point to pull him away from his work last night, and he suffered through a four-hour writing session this morning as a direct result.

“I am such a bitch,” I whisper to his laptop.

“You’re not all bad,” comes a low, gentle voice behind me.

I jerk away from the screen feeling (and probably looking) as guilty as hell.

“Forgot my wallet.” He leans around me, pulls open a drawer, and grabs his wallet. “Change your mind about lunch? Now’s your chance.”

“Barrett.” I gesture to the screen, unsure what else to say. Unsure why he’s not shouting at me for invading his privacy.

“Now you know my secret. Quite the plot twist, huh?”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” I ask, my tone flat. “Why didn’t you explain this was going on?”

“Didn’t you see the book entitled Dyslexia: The Silent Shame?”

“Don’t joke.”

He pockets his wallet and squats in front of me. He’s looking up at me with gorgeous blue eyes, his expression one of patience.

“I’ve lived with it my entire life. It’s not news. Lunch?”

“You should tell Mia. She’ll extend your deadline. She’ll—” He places his finger over my lips and shakes his head.

“I’m not telling Mia. I’m not letting you finish the column for me. I’m going to do it myself and it’s not going to be done by noon.” He stands and I tip my chin to take in his height. “Lunch. Let’s go.”

When I turn longingly back to his laptop, he shuts the lid and holds out his palm. I take his hand and stand, pausing at my desk to grab my phone and purse. We walk to the elevator in platonic silence.

---

We’re at a café a few blocks from work, sitting inside with the A/C in quiet company with other professionals on their lunch breaks. The café serves chicken salad sandwiches I can’t pass up, so I’m enjoying every calorie of the buttery croissant drenched in a mayonaissey goodness. Conversely, Barrett ordered a salad, but it does have a medium-rare filet on top.

He glares at me, swallows the bite, and then says, “If you don’t stop looking at me like an abandoned puppy on the side of the road, I am going to stand from this chair and announce to everyone here that you’re my wife and I caught you cheating on me with our dentist.”

“What? Don’t you dare!”

“Don’t dare me.”

“Dammit, Barrett.”

“I like the anger.” He points to me with his fork. “Keep that.”

“You’re not funny.”

“I’m not kidding.”

“I don’t believe you.” I fold my arms stubbornly.

“Well, excuse me, sweetheart!” he shouts, bursting out of his chair. “I expected you to have a tooth filled, not your—”

“Barrett, please!” I stand and reach over the table to grip his forearm.

Every pair of eyes in the café swivel to us.

“I promise I’ll stop,” I whisper.

“Okay then.” He waves at the diners around us and announces, “My apologies for the interruption.” Then he sits down and tucks into his meal like nothing happened.

I sit, too, earning a few admonishing glares from our neighbors.

“You are unbelievable.” I push my plate aside. Half my heavenly sandwich is left, but I’m no longer hungry.

“I’ve been told,” he says around a bite.

“Can you at least explain it to me? Can we talk about it?”

He sighs, a weary sound, and swipes his mouth with a napkin.

“Take that pitying tone out of your voice, and I’ll explain. Briefly.”

“Deal,” I announce, barely hiding my excitement.

“Curiosity killed the Kitty Cat.” The amused twitch of his lips transforms his entire face for the better.

“Being curious is my nature.”

“Being an asshole is mine.”

I shake my head. It’s not true. And we both know it. But I don’t argue because I don’t want to stray off topic. “Dyslexia. When did you know?”

“Fourth grade. Spelling bee. There was lots of laughing coming my direction for hastily spelling the word dumb d-u-m.”

My heart aches for that embarrassed little boy, but I don’t show it, instead saying, “Honest mistake, that’s how it’s spelled on the lollipops.”

“Exactly.” He gifts me with a warm smile, but it drops a moment later. “I can write and I can spell, but it takes a lot of concentration to do either with any proficiency. Unlike you who puts her fingers on the keys and out it comes right the first time.”

“It’s not right the first time.”

He eyes me with suspicion.

“Not always,” I mumble.

He leans over our cozy table to tip my chin with his knuckle. “Don’t apologize for being an incredible writer.” He holds me there until I agree with a nod, and then he returns to moving his salad around his bowl with his fork. “I do my own work. I’ve always done my own work. But I’m not turning in a shoddy, half-assed piece while you turn in Shakespeare.”

“You can still do your own work, I’m only offering to beta read. And a few edits. Professionals do it all the time!”

“I’m not a professional.” He sips his water.

“Barrett—”

“Catarina. I don’t want you to do it for me. I’ve got this.”

I close my mouth at the sound of my full name. It’s rare that he trots it out.

“I respect your right to improve on your own merit,” I say. Reluctantly.

“I don’t know what that means, but thanks.”

Beneath the table, I kick his shoe with the toe of mine. He sends me a smile, another wink, and then goes back to his lunch. I guess we’ll deal with the consequences when we return the office.

I pull my purse into my lap and dig around for my cellphone, coming up empty.

“Looking for something?” he asks.

“Yes. My phone. I could’ve sworn I tossed it into my purse before we left.”

“You did. I have it.”

“When? Why?”

“I lifted it while we were in the elevator and put it on silent. I knew Mia would call and I didn’t want you to deal with that.”

Rage hits me like a runaway train. He pulls my phone out of his pocket. I stand and snatch it, pressing the button and noting several texts from Mia and three missed calls.

“Great. Just great.” I key in my password, my mind a tangle of panicked thoughts.

“I take it she’s mad,” he says, calm as ever.

“Of course she’s mad!” I earn more attention from a few nearby tables. “How dare you? This is my work!”

“It’ll be fine. I’m the one in trouble.”

“Not now that I’ve ignored her and you missed your deadline!”

A suited man rushes to our table. “Excuse me, folks, but does there seem to be a problem?”

“Yes…George,” I say after reading his name tag. The word “MANAGER” is on there, too, and it’s no surprise we’ve summoned him. Trouble is Barrett Fox’s shadow. “But it’s my problem. You’ll be glad to know I’ll be dealing with it far away from your establishment.”

“I’ll behave myself,” Barrett promises George. Then to me, “See you at the office, sweetheart.”

“Don’t sweetheart me.” I march away, purse swinging, head down as I peck a text to Mia letting her know I’m on my way.