It’s nearing ten, and I’m supposed to be scheduling a meeting for Paul with Connor Development, but instead, I’m watching Tathan eat an apple, wishing my pussy was that apple.

I have to physically turn my head from him, and even that doesn’t help right away. I have to force myself to pay attention to the call I’m on.

The conference call ends, and I’m starving, so I purchase M&M’s from the vending machine on the second floor. Back at my desk, I empty the entire bag, count them and then organize them by color before I eat them. I’ll admit I’m a little OCD when it comes to colors and chocolate.

My lunch break goes by too fast, and I’m then forced to figure out how to pass the time for the rest of the day since Paul left for a meeting downtown. It’s not like he’s been around much the last six months, and I’m very efficient at my job, so it leaves for a lot of downtime in the afternoons.

My entertainment?

Craigslist.

It’s my way of getting back at Tathan for all his teasing. I post an ad on there for a handyman looking for extra work. I address the title as: Construction Worker looking for Handy Work.

In the description for work, I add: Will accept trades for payments, known to work without my shirt.

Then I put Tathan’s desk phone as the contact number and nearly burst out laughing thinking of his face when he gets that first call.

It’s not the first time I’ve posted an ad on Craigslist for him. Clearly. Remember the car ad last night? Two weeks ago, I posted an ad on there for a construction worker looking for a cleaning lady. It’s amazing the response you get when you add the word construction worker. That time I gave them Tathan’s address and sat at my door with a bowl of popcorn and gummy bears watching the congregation of ladies file through.

Tathan wasn’t amused.

I was.

He made the mistake of answering the door in his usual attire, no shirt. By the tenth woman, he’d added a sweater, and a North Face winter jacket even though it was ninety degrees out.

Forty-one minutes and sixteen seconds after posting my newest ad, Tathan picks up his phone that has been ringing non-stop.

“Madsen Construction,” he answers, his eyes on his computer screen, seeming annoyed.

“Who?” Confusion marks his eyes. “Um, no. . . I didn’t post an ad. . . . Who is this?” He pauses, shaking his head. “Zane, it’s me Tathan.”

Tathan peeks around his computer and smirks. He’s a quick fucker. He catches on fairly soon I’m the one who posted it.

I almost wet my pants trying to stifle the laughter that’s begging to erupt. Zane saw the ad on Craigslist without me even letting him in on my plan. That boy has a fetish for construction workers swinging their hammers. This is why he works for Madsen Construction.

With a black bag over his shoulder, Tathan leaves the office after an hour of smirking and winking at every X-chromosome that walks by.

He stops by my desk, like he always does before he leaves. “Dinner tonight?”

“Not a chance,” I say without looking up. Despite my response, he lingers. I continue to pretend to type something and accidentally send an e-mail to Casey with just a shitload of letters jumbled together.

“Come on, Amalie, I just want to have a meal with you.” I can feel him staring at me. “And I think you owe me one after your dog peed at my door.”

“I replaced your doormat. And you don’t want a meal. . . you want to make me the meal and throw me in the Bucket of Sluts.” I spin in my chair to face him, getting a little dizzy in the process. “I’m not bucket material.” I click my pen obsessively to keep my hands busy.

If they weren’t busy, I’d probably be unbuttoning his jeans or fanning myself with a manila folder as I envision myself unbuttoning his jeans with my teeth.

Tathan sighs as his one hand adjusts his bag, the other on the cubicle partition. “You’re right. I do want you, but not in my bucket. I don’t even know what that means.” He chuckles when he says bucket. So do I because the way he says it is funny. The thought isn’t lost on me that we have something in common—we think the word bucket is funny which makes me think we have similar personalities and we’re probably fairly compatible.

“See. . . you like me,” he points out when I laugh with him. “I don’t know why you try to avoid me.”

“I have to work. What do you even do here?” I don’t think Tathan does anything at work. He sits at his desk, watches me, and leaves around noon most days. Sometimes he’s in Paul’s office, and sometimes he’s working on the computer. Not often.

“Please go to dinner with me.”

“No.”

Paul comes around the corner, having returned from his meeting and hands Tathan a note.

“Okay.” Tathan nods after reading it and turns to leave, he pauses to adjust his bag and stares at me. “Are you sure?”

No. “I’m sure.”

I watch him disappear down the hall. Actually, I watch his ass in those jeans until Paul clears his throat.

I snap my eyes to his. “What do you want?” I ask, forgetting who I’m talking to.

He laughs, the same laugh all his sons have. The kind that makes me smile, warm and toasty, “snowy winter day with hot chocolate in front of the fireplace” kind of warm and toasty. Not that I’ve ever seen snow. I live in Arizona and have my entire life.

“You know, Amalie.” He pauses, twisting around to walk back to his office. “I like you.”

“Yeah, people keep saying that to me today.” I face my computer and flick the monitor. “Must be my winning personality.”

Tathan doesn’t show back up the rest of the day; this makes me happy and sad. I have no idea what my plan was and why I need to hate him. My problem is I kinda like the guy.