Friday mornings I got into work early, usually so early Flour Power wasn’t even open yet to let me snag my standard breakfast. I liked to get in and finish my article, which printed every Sunday, free of distractions and noise. I spent the first part of the week collecting research, brainstorming, and outlining, but I wrote the article on Friday. By that point, I was itching to get my thoughts down on paper, and the words flowed. Typically, I was done with the first draft before anyone else even made it into the office. I spent the rest of the morning editing and revising before handing it over to copy edit.
However, this morning, words were in short supply and creativity was coming up empty. Not even the fresh splash of inspiration from P&P last night had conjured up my writing muse. As I rubbed my eyes and contemplated taking a coffee break, the floor creaked behind me.
When I whipped around in my chair, I found the other early bird at work at six on a Friday morning. Brooks’s eyes narrowed on my laptop screen.
“‘Flowers are a relationship enhancer—not a relationship fixer. And they’re not a substitute for bad behavior. Buy them because you want to make her happy, not because you’ve done something to make her sad.’” After reading the last part of my first paragraph, Brooks chuckled. “This wouldn’t be inspired by a certain bouquet of flowers that showed up at your place, would it?”
I closed my laptop screen and scooted away from him. “Only a narcissist would assume that.”
Another chuckle. God, I really hated that laugh. Two notes, deep in the chest, oozing condescension.
“I’ve got a deadline looming. Why don’t you scurry off to your office hole and pretend you have something to do other than annoy me?”
“By the way. You’re welcome. For the flowers.” Brooks inspected my outfit, grinning when he noticed the broach pinned to my fuchsia cashmere cardigan. It was old-fashioned and kind of gaudy, but it had been my grandma’s, and therefore, it was timeless.
When I refused to offer any kind of response, especially gratitude, he continued. “I declined the offer of the office in favor of a cubicle, remember? Didn’t want anyone thinking I had any unfair advantages when I get the job.”
I worked to unclench my fists. “Yet another thing a narcissist would say.”
“Oo. Two for two.” Brooks checked his watch; this one was different than yesterday’s, but somehow looked even more expensive. “But sadly, not a new record for being called a narcissist twice this early in the morning.”
I needed a distraction. A cup of coffee to sip from. A newspaper to skim through. A damn article to finish writing—except I didn’t need King Chauvinist reading every syllable over my shoulder.
“Electing to sit in one of these cubicles like the rest of us minions? How big of you,” I muttered.
“It’s only for three months. I can manage.” Brooks was lingering, holding a tray with a few coffee cups.
I waited for him to move on and let me get back to work.
Any time now . . .
“Any chance you’ll be heading to that lowly cubicle of yours any time soon?” I asked when another minute ticked by with him standing there with that gorgeous smile and stare that somehow managed to make me violent.
“Since it appears I won’t be receiving a thanks for that monstrosity I sent you last night . . .” He made it all of one and a half steps before stopping. “By the way, what time should I pick you up tonight?”
My head tipped. “Excuse me?”
“For our date.” He was looking at me like I was missing something.
“What date?”
He rubbed his mouth. “Our first date.”
“That’s not happening tonight. I didn’t agree to that. And you don’t ask a girl on a date by asking what time you should pick her up.” My arms crossed. “Only a narcissist would pose a date that way.”
“Three times.” Brooks checked his watch again. “Now that is a record.”
“I’m sure it won’t hold long.”
“My god, woman. Can you cram any more pluck into that petite frame?”
Glancing down at myself, I wondered what petite frame he was talking about. My height was on the petite-ish side, but my frame was very un-petite.
“About that first date.”
“Again. Not a way to ask a woman on one.”
His phone buzzed in his pocket, but he didn’t check it. “I already know where you live, so let’s say I show up around nine?”
“Nine? That’s a person’s bedtime, not the ideal hour to head out for a date.”
“A nine o’clock bedtime? I remember those days.” He leaned in a little, his eyes flashing with amusement. “Then I graduated the first grade.”
Grumbling, I twisted back around in my swivel chair, only to catch the ankle of my pantyhose on one of the wheels. I’d snagged them already, and it wasn’t yet seven in the morning.
“Charles already informed the camera guy and scheduled the first official live feed for tonight. So if you want to go tell him you’re not going to go through with it . . .” Brooks motioned down the hall toward Mr. Conrad’s office. It was dark and empty this early, but it wouldn’t stay that way.
“He already scheduled the first date?” Whipping open my laptop, I pulled up the World Times’ homepage, and sure enough, the top article read Ms. Romance vs Mr. Reality. Who will win the battle of love? Find out tonight at 9pm EST.
My throat did that cotton thing again—a common reaction to Brooks’s presence.
He nudged my shoulder with his hand. “It’s a date.”
My eyes narrowed on the screen. “It’s a cheap trick.”
“Are you saying I’m cheap? Or you are?” Brooks leaned back out of arm’s reach, having at least some survival instincts. “Because I recall the bar tab that night and you were not cheap. At all.”
“You were the one who ordered the drinks. I didn’t know what I was drinking.”
“So you’re saying you are cheap?” That amused tone of his was going to be responsible for me committing violent acts. “That I should scratch the reservations I have at the five-star and go with a curb seating by the local hotdog vendor?”
My fingers drilled into my temples. I needed to stock up on Tylenol for the next three months. “I’ve got an article to write. Will you please leave me alone?”
“Do you want me to leave you alone before or after I drop off the coffee I got you?” Sliding one of the cups from the tray he was holding, he held it out.
When I examined the label, I found he’d ordered it exactly how I took my coffee. Extra cream and sugar. Not that that was an exceptionally unique order, but still, it wasn’t exactly the single Manhattan woman preference of black coffee, no sugar or cream because lord forbid a calorie come in liquid form.
Instead of waiting for me to answer, he set the cup down beside my laptop. As he did, his eyes fell on one of the framed photos I had sprawled along my desk. “Mom and Dad?”
My eyes moved to the same photo, one taken almost twenty years ago, of them standing beside the small prop plane Dad had learned to fly in college. People said I looked like my mom, but I didn’t see it. She was a rare beauty, vintage Hollywood like. They looked so happy—the kind a person didn’t believe was real—but growing up with them for eight years of my life, I knew it was. Maybe not easily attainable or accessible, but achievable with the right life recipe.
“Yeah,” I answered at last, looking away.
“Let me guess. High school sweethearts, married after graduation, go on evening walks together after dinner, still fall asleep in each other’s arms—”
“You’re not going away!” Pretty sure my voice just echoed down the hall, it was that loud.
“There’s my exit cue.” Brooks turned and left. But he didn’t go far.
Only as far as the cubicle across from mine.
Rolling my neck, I took a breath. “What are you doing?”
“Scampering off to my cubicle. Isn’t that what you wanted?” The wall between us made it hard to see more than the top of his head, but I could imagine the expression on his face based off his tone alone.
“And is there a reason your cube is directly across from mine?” My fingers hovered above my keyboard, writer’s block burrowing deeper with every passing second.
“There’s a reason for everything, Arden.”
Packing up my things to find some quiet corner, I replied, “That doesn’t mean that reason is a good one.”
“See you tonight. And don’t worry. I’m not expecting you to put out on the first date or anything.” Brooks’s voice followed me down the hallway. “Oh wait.”