VERITY

I call myself a Faceless One. A drudge. Mindless job as a tech support team minion. Correct, I support the support team. I'm not allowed to offer help directly to the general public. Initially, I was, but my forthright nature didn't wash. I prefer to lose myself in fixing computer code or identifying faults anyway. Most of the guys I work with have little interest in conversation beyond swearing about client stupidity, so I stick in my world for each eight-hour shift.

My work cubicle is lost in the centre of the hive, besides two people I've worked with for the last two years. Debbie on my right, cubicle covered in family photos and her kid's drawings, and Don on my left, with his minimalist, super tidy cubicle he covers in crumbs every day when he eats the wrapped sandwich he brings from home.

My style's closer to Don's, although I've adorned my monitor with cat stickers and pinned some arty postcards to the felt-covered, boxed walls around me. I did have a stress toy to squeeze, in the shape of a dog, but I stressed the item too much and the head fell off.

I spent yesterday evening shaking and sick following my encounter with Heath, eventually distracting myself with a mini-binge on Netflix. My blog inbox held messages to answer, but not in the mood, I ignored them. I'm in touch with half a dozen people in different countries who're helping me with my latest research into the background of Alphanet executives. People who don't think I'm crazy. Last night, my brain was too fried by my encounter with Heath.

The dent in my car bumper was clearer in daylight. I'm no believer in superheroes or iron-skinned gargoyle shifters, but that's one hell of a dent. Maybe Heath's right, and my ageing car's bodywork isn't up to scratch.

The noise of a hundred conversations surrounds me, clients with telecommunication problems answered by some, those needing tech support for their new internet set up sent through to my team.

Yeah, it's a joke throughout the world, but the phrase “have you turned it off and on again?” should be framed as the company motto in the corner of the room. Second only to “have you plugged in the modem?”

Fun times.

The clock to my right, outside the glass-windowed supervisor's office, ticks closer to break time. Which department does Heath work in? He must be on this floor if he's seen me around. The fact he's seen me around and remembered me flutters my stomach because, y'know, hot guy.

After last night, I doubt he'll ever forget me.

At lunch, disappointment joins my salad as Heath doesn't appear. I sit in the lunchroom, ensuring I watch people come and go rather than keep my head in a book. Paperbacks only for me; I spend enough time staring at technology. Entertaining and dismissing the idea he's missing, or might be dead, or unconscious in hospital, I return to work.

* * *

Shift over, I tramp across the car park dreaming of the time I'll be allocated a 9 to 5 shift and not leaving work at 9:00 p.m. I parked my beaten-up car where us worker bees are allowed, away from the queens whose allocated bays are a short walk from the entrance.

"Verity!" The cultured English accent from yesterday calls my name, and I turn to Heath.

His easygoing gait shows no sign my bad driving has any long-term side effects. I halt beneath a car park spotlight at the edge. He approaches, then halts a few feet away from me, finally allowing me to see him clearly.

I blink. He's beautiful. I mean, I know that's a weird word to use about a guy, but good-looking or hot doesn't apply here. The symmetry to his face, the full mouth, the moss-green eyes fixed on mine all conspire to blank my mind. He isn't wearing a jacket today, but instead his work attire: a plain shirt stretching across his chest, with tie, trousers, and shiny shoes. The hair damp yesterday now settles around his face. I'm not big on long hair for guys, but Heath's covers his ears and reaches the top of his neck. Borderline between okay and too long for my tastes.

Ha, listen to me, like I have a chance.

He studies me in return, eyes searching mine, prickling my scalp. His eyes glisten in the twilight, and the attraction to him rises.

"Hey." I attempt to sound relaxed and end up almost squeaking.

"Sorry I missed you today, but here I am." Heath steps back, arms outstretched either side as if inviting an inspection. "Upright. Head and internal organs intact."

"Right."

"Seriously, I'm good and thanking the stars you don't drive an SUV."

"Same."

"I do have some scratches though." He indicates his arm.

"Yeah, totally unscathed wouldn't make sense." I voice out loud the thought I've carried.

"Any chance you can drop me in town? My car's in for repairs today. I scored a ride from a friend this morning but don't have...." He trails off at my wide-eyed expression. "Oh, I can call an Uber. Just thought as we're leaving at the same time you'd be happy to repay me with a ride home."

"No. I mean, yes," I say and cringe at my hasty response. "Sure. Where do you live?"

"Drop me off in town, and I'll be good. I'm meeting some friends at the pub. Again. Usual evening." He grins, eyes crinkling in one corner. "You can join me if you like. Us."

At least us doesn't sound like a date, although my chest twinged at his correction. "I'm not a fan of pubs."

Heath scratches his cheek. "Right. Shame. A ride and buying me a pint would be enough compensation that I don't set my lawyers on you for damages."

"What?" I narrow my eyes and detect whether he's teasing. Lying I can spot, teasing—no.

"Kidding! So, can I?"

Jesus, he's giving me puppy-dog eyes in a face like that? Nailed it. Now I'm half-convinced it's me he wants to spend time with, and I waver. "Jump in. It’s too bloody cold to hang around out here. I'll drop you in town, but I'll decline the offer of a drink."

Heath spends most of the journey focused on his presumably new phone, and I glance at him as we stop at the traffic lights. The yellow streetlight strokes his face I swear could be sculpted by a mischievous god. His heavy brow is pulled down, and he pulls on his bottom lip as he reads.

Rude, much?

I clear my throat, pointedly, and he looks up. "Okay?"

"We're almost there. I can drop you in the town square if that works?"

The road through the countryside switch to better lit narrow streets leading passed a small row of shops and into the tiny town centre. A statue of an ancient king is the focus of the square (the plaque with his story overwritten by graffiti tags) where teens often hang out in the evenings before the police move them on. Several pubs and small shops are opposite the square; the proliferation of pubs in the town outweighs the shops two to one.

"You sure you don't want to join us?" he asks.

"I'm driving?"

"You don't live far. Park your car and we can walk back. I'll buy you a coke."

"I don't drink caffeine this late at night."

Heath throws me a curious look. "Or juice. Or do you have someone waiting at home? Is that why you don't want to spend time with me?"

Huh? "Just my cat." Or I did; I swear he moved into my neighbour’s place.

"Cat?" He pulls a face. "I promise I'll be more entertaining than a cat."

I glance at the time on my dashboard, 10:30 p.m. I haven't spent an evening out since Anna visited me from London; my best friend, I joke, abandoned me for the big city. Sometimes I wish I'd left too, enjoyed the anonymity, but I doubt I'd enjoy the noise and crazy city life invading my head. I prefer peace—and an affordable rent.

"Okay. One drink."

His face brightens. "Awesome. I just don't think you should go home yet."

Something in his words arrests me as we continue to the carpark outside my flat, as if a sad evening as a crazy cat lady isn't what he means.

* * *

Heath walks alongside me, at a distance I’d normally be oblivious to; but with him, I fight drifting across the path to attach myself to his side. Not only has he forgiven me for threatening his life, but also he’s asked me to join him for an after-work drink.

If only the clones could see me now.

“What’s funny?”

Heath looks down at me. Did I just snicker out loud? “Nothing. Just thinking about some friends from work.”

My overactive imagination usually limits itself to theorising over which TV personality could be subtly brainwashing the masses; this time it’s focused on the remote possibility Heath’s interested in me.

“Do you like working at Alphanet?” he asks.

“It pays the bills.”

“Isn’t it boring?”

“I’ve been there three years now, I guess I like life staying the same.”

“Hmm.” Heath holds an arm out and takes my elbow guiding me around a large puddle. “I doubt I’ll stay there long.”

His action in saving my feet from a soaking surprises me, but not as much as the fact his hand stays against my arm a few seconds longer than needed. Close proximity to this guy sets my heart rate into overdrive and a desire for him to feel the same. Even touching me through my thin coat sparked more ideas the attraction could be mutual.

“You’ve only worked at the place for three weeks,” I say.

“I’ve more interesting jobs coming up. This is just temporary.”

“Moving on?”

“Probably.” He glances at me. “Maybe we should make the most of the time I’m around.” My eloquent response? Mouth hanging open. “If you want.”

Time to turn on the lie detection. “Are you propositioning me, Heath? I only agreed to a drink at the pub!”

He halts and digs his hands into his pockets. “Do you want me to?”

Don’t ask me questions like that. I clench my teeth together to stop the blunt truth coming out, and I settle on, “You’re an attractive guy.”

He smirks. “I know. And I’m not propositioning you. I find you intriguing. You’re different.”

I wrinkle my nose. The truth. Damn, a girl likes the chance of a proposition. “Are you one of us?”

His brow pulls down. “One of who?”

“You said I'm different. Intriguing. Do you know about my blog?” I stiffen. “Or are you someone who’s trying to get close to me because I’m hitting on the truth.”

“Wow, you’re paranoid.”

“Hot guys don’t normally single me out for attention and tell me I’m interesting. I won’t fall for that tactic.” I narrow my eyes at him, and his face dimples as a smile grows.

“Their loss. And no, I’m not secret service attempting to seduce you into telling me secrets. Besides, if I wanted you to tell me the truth about something, you would.”

My eyes narrow further. “Would I?”

“Ah, Verity. People can be influenced by what their name is, you know.” He laughs.

“Heath? So you enjoy long walks in the countryside, then?”

His amusement drops, and he walks ahead to the pavement edge. “If you’re only staying for one drink with me and my friends, we’d better be quick.”

* * *