Текст книги "Outside the Lines"

Автор книги: Emily Goodwin

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Текущая страница: 3 (всего у книги 14 страниц)

Mindy waits a beat for me to answer. When I don’t, she goes one. “What have you been up to?”

I know this game. She’s asking me so I’ll have to ask her and she can show off her amazing life. I guess some people never change. You can take the bitch out of high school but you can’t take the bitch out of, well, anyone.

“You know, normal stuff,” I tell her.

“That’s good. Do you like Grand Rapids? Was it hard to leave your friends?”

I don’t take my eyes off the computer. “Yes, but I have lots of friends here and we hang out all the time,” I lie right through my teeth. Ninety-nine percent of them are online. Okay, fine. Ninety-eight percent since I count Ser Pounce as a friend. Hanging out on forums and talking over games is pretty much the same thing as hanging out in real life though. Who is she to judge?

Calm your tits, Felicity. 

“Do you still talk to anyone from high school or college?”

“Not really. Just my best friend Erin.”

“Erin?” I can see her tip her head. “I don’t remember her.”

“Too bad. She’s pretty awesome.”

Mindy giggles. “High school was so long ago. And that’s good you’re liking it here. So funny to think we both ended up here!”

“Hilarious,” I say dryly. Hilarious in a way that this is proof the universe hates me. I scoot closer to the computer.

“Are you married?” Mindy asks. She can clearly see the lack of a wedding ring on my finger.

“Nope.”

“Oh. I got married young, a few days after I turned twenty-one. I just couldn’t say no!” She laughs like it’s actually funny. “So you have a boyfriend then?”

“Nope.”

“Ah, must be nice to do whatever you want then.”

“It is.” I yawn and wish I’d stopped for more coffee. I’d downed my second cup on the way here. Why did Mindy still feel the need to put me down in a passive-aggressive way? Mom would tell me it was some deep psychological issue and she was actually insecure. While I did believe that, I also believed some people were just assholes, and Mindy fit that bill.

The front door opens, and an older couple comes in to buy a painting. Mindy gets up and greets then, then disappears into the gallery.

Adios, bitchachos. 

I work in silence for a while, and figure out pretty fast that the computer is loaded with cookies. The problem isn’t a virus, but a computer so old it belongs in a museum. I can’t even install the new protection they bought. I run a few updates and look around for the bathroom. That coffee goes through me fast. I tap my nails on the desk, hating that I have to ask Mindy where the bathroom is, though it’s not like she doesn’t use it herself.

The couple comes back to the front, and Mindy rings them up using an old-fashioned looking register. I hear her say the painting will be delivered tomorrow morning since it was too big to fit inside their car. They write her a check for over a grand and leave with smiles.

“Are you done yet? Did you get rid of the virus?” Mindy asks before the door closes behind the old couple.

“You don’t have a virus,” I tell her. “The issues you described can be fixed with updating your computers.”

“Can you do that?”

“Not on this one. There isn’t enough memory to support the update to the newest version of Windows.”

“Can’t you fix it?”

I put on a pleasant smile. “Yes, in theory. This whole computer is really old though. I think it’d be better in the long run to consider a new one.”

Mindy purses her lips. “That’s up to Ben. He’s very stuck in his ways.”

Without seeing Ben, I assume he’s older. And probably gay. This gallery is way too chic to come from someone straight.

“The register is slow for credit cards too,” Mindy adds.

That’s a whole other issue. “I don’t think this building is wired for high-speed internet,” I say. “Upgrading can help with that too. Really, you gotta stay current with everything to get the fastest speed.”

“I’ll let Ben know.” She smirks. “And I’ll let him know you weren’t able to do what he hired you to do.”

“Well, he hired the company to create a state-of-the-art site that is only compatible with a new operating system.”

Her lips go into a thin line. “I’ll let him know.”

I don’t move, assuming she’s going to go talk to him now and then I can be on my way and find a damn bathroom. My bladder is not happy right now.

“I guess I’ll have him call your company then. I said he’s busy now, remember? He does not like to be disturbed. And he’s not going to be happy to hear you can’t fix this.”

I press my lips together and smile. “All right then.” I scoot the heavy chair away from the desk and stand, gathering my things. Someone else comes into the gallery, and I’m able to sneak out without saying any sort of awkward goodbye to Mindy. I call Cameron as I hurry across the street to a coffee shop. I don’t really need another coffee now, but they have a bathroom and my bladder is raging at me.

“Hey, boss man,” I say, holding the phone between my head and shoulder as I sit on the toilet, and quickly explain the situation.

“Are you in the bathroom?” Cameron asks when the toilet flushes.

“Uh, no.”

“Sure.” I can see him rolling his eyes. “And don’t worry about it. I’ll call later and get it sorted out.”

“Thanks,” I say and wash my hands. “Need me to come back?”

He hesitates. “Not really. Just act like you’re still busy over there.”

I smile and feel some of the stress melt off. It might not be so bad of a day after all.

CHAPTER FOUR

I’ll learn to go to bed at a reasonable hour someday, right? Maybe next year, when I’m older and wiser. But not now, when staying up playing games trumps sleep until the sun creeps up then I scramble to bed, trying to force myself to sleep before my alarm goes off in a few short hours.

I drag ass through work the next day, crashing when I come home. I wake up at nine-thirty, eat dinner, do a bit of cleaning, then take a book onto my small backyard patio and reading until mosquitos force me inside. The long nap makes it hard to fall asleep, so after using Mr. Silent Knight once or twice (or three or four times—hey, a girl has needs), I get out of bed to lay out the fabric for my costume and watch just one Harry Potter movie.

And then I’m dragging my ass into work Wednesday morning, just as tired as the day before. Having fallen asleep after I got out of the shower, I twisted my hair up into a bun as I walked from the parking lot into work. I did my makeup at stoplights, and had my favorite R2D2 tank top on under a white button up. I put off doing laundry and had been forced into the section of my closet I refer to as my “sexy librarian clothes,” which isn’t helping my issue with the top button of my shirt continually popping open.

“Look at you,” Cameron says as I put my lunch in the fridge in the break room.

I let the fridge door swing shut and give him a look. “I know. I overslept and look terrible.”

“I’m thinking the opposite,” he says. “You are rocking that tight skirt.”

“Really?” I turn my head to look at my ass. “I think it looks double its size.”

“Maybe I’m biased,” Cameron starts. “Or not biased, I guess, since I don’t find you sexually attractive.”

“Thanks,” I say dryly.

“Oh shut up,” he spits back. “I don’t find any woman sexually attractive, not with your breasts and vaginas.” He shutters. “Been there, tried that. So not my thing. But I do know you look good dressed up, by anyone’s standards. I don’t know why you don’t dress up more often.”

I hold my hand up and rub my fingers with my thumb, reminding him dressing up for work doesn’t benefit me. It’s not like I’ll do a better job if my skirt hugs my ass than if my pants bag around my cheeks.

He rolls his eyes and puts cream cheese on a bagel. A few other people shuffle in, grabbing donuts and fresh coffee before starting the workday. I make small talk and eat a donut, yawning the whole time, then retreat to my desk, talking with Mariah as I work. I keep Facebook open, chatting with Erin as I answer emails and convert codes for clients, and then help Mariah with a snag she hit in one of her projects.

At lunch time, Cameron comes and takes a seat at the table next to me. He doesn’t have food, or his phone.

Crap.

“Unless you have Comic Con tickets, no,” I say.

“A little presumptuous, aren’t you?”

I stab a strawberry with my fork. “Am I wrong?”

He sighs and laughs. “No. I just got off the phone with that gallery.”

“Not doing it,” I say. He doesn’t know about Mindy, and I really don’t want to bring it up.

“On come on. The owner bought all new computers. Brand new and ready to be played with.”

“I don’t want to play with his. I like to play with my own, thank you very much.”

Cameron’s lips push together as he tries not to laugh.

“You know what I mean. Please don’t make me.”

“You are so stubborn, you know that, right?”

I shrug. “I prefer strong willed.”

“Call it what you want. But I already said you’d be there to help set shit up.”

“Fine,” I huff. If I never see Mindy fucking Abraham again it would be too soon. “When do I have to be there?”

“Half an hour.”

I nod and get back to my food. “I’m only doing this because I love you. And you told me my ass looks good today.”

He stands with a smile. “Thank you, Felicity. Seriously, this saves me so much trouble.”

I quickly finish my food, refill my Little Mermaid travel coffee mug, and stop at my desk to get my purse. I yank the band out of my hair and let the wind loosen the tight ringlets the bun created. I’m halfway to the gallery when I realize I left my coffee at my desk. I debate on turning around, but don’t have time. I might, just might, be able to run across the street to the Starbucks by the gallery and hit up the drive through. I yawn. Yep. There isn’t enough coffee in the world to get me through the rest of the afternoon with Mindy.

A text comes through from my brother, saying that Danielle is working on “tightening the guest list” and needs to know if I’m bringing a date. I pick up my phone, dangerously reading the text while driving. I won’t actually text while driving, no sir, not worth the risk. Besides, what am I going to say? Chances are I won’t have a date, and that makes me feel all sorts of low.

Fuck it.

I can have fun on my own. And Erin makes a pretty great date. I’ll think of a response later. Right now, I need coffee. Of course, the drive through line is a mile long. I park, hoping I can quickly run in and get my order. Luckily, the inside line is nothing compared to the dozen cars lined up around the store. I put on lip gloss and rake my fingers through my hair then hurry into the cafe.

I order an iced mocha and a brownie with chocolate frosting that looks way too good to pass up. I pay, then stand to the side and wait for my drink, feeling the panic start to build as each minute passes. I check the time on my phone. Yep. I’m officially late.

I try to tell myself it doesn’t matter, and that I probably won’t need the whole appointment time anyway. Still, it bugs me to be unprofessional. If Cameron gets a complaint, he will get it from his boss and will be forced to handle it. Plus, after hearing how particular this Ben guy is, I can’t imagine he’ll be too pleasant when I walk in ten to fifteen minutes late. I need him there for part of the time to let me in his office and to put in passwords. And I’m sure he’ll need step-by-step instructions on how to do pretty much everything.

Finally, my drink comes and it’s a balancing act to hold my brownie, phone, wallet, and vente mocha. Somedays I really question my own judgment. This would have been exponentially easier if I had brought my purse in. I gather everything up, take a step, then stop, knowing I have to rearrange something or everything is going onto the floor.

The man who’d been behind me waiting on his drink grabs his coffee from the counter and abruptly turns around, probably thinking I was long gone. Yet there I am, just a foot from where I’d been.

He collides with me, smashing my brownie against my phone and sloshing my cold coffee down the front of my shirt. My mind whirls, going from what the fuck, to holy shit this is cold, to noticing that he’s impossibly gorgeous. He’s well over six feet tall, with a shock of thick, black hair that matches his dark eyes. Stubble covers a strong jaw and tattoos peek out from the sleeves of a black T-shirt that’s filled out by strong muscles. His jeans are washed out and tight in all the right places, and I find my eyes trailing down his body on their own accord. That’s one hell of a bulge he’s got going on.

“Fuck, I’m so sorry,” he blurts and takes a step back. Some of my coffee splashed on him, but the majority is running down my front and dripping onto the floor. “I didn’t see you there. Well, I did, but then you moved,” he goes on.

“It’s okay,” I say, feeling breathless as I watch his full lips move as he speaks. I blink. No, this isn’t okay, actually. I’m covered in coffee.

“Let me help,” he says and sets his own drink down to grab napkins. I’m standing frozen, not sure what to do. My items are barely in my grasp and any movement might send them falling. Not the brownie! 

“Here,” he says and takes the smashed coffee from my hand. I shake myself and take a step forward, setting my phone, wallet, and brownie onto the counter, and take the napkins from his outstretched hand. I wipe off the mess from my hands first, then move to my shirt.

“I’m so sorry,” he says, eyes on my chest as he takes in the damage done. “I’m in a rush and I … I … fuck. Can I at least buy you another coffee?”

Rush. Right. I’m in a rush too, and my brain automatically goes to the universe cursing me for being selfish enough to show up late to an appointment just so I could get coffee.

“No,” I say. “There’s still some left.”

He wipes off my phone. “I feel awful, really.”

I toss the napkins and get another handful, sticking them inside my shirt and retrieving a chunk of ice from between my breasts.

“Hey, at least it wasn’t hot coffee,” I say and force a smile.

He smiles back and I just might have quivered. “Right. I don’t want a lawsuit on my hands.”

A barista comes over with a damp towel. I thank her and wipe at my shirt, knowing it’s a futile attempt at most. This sucker needs to soak in some cold water and detergent. Fuck. I have to work like this now. I close my eyes, silently seething as I imagine Mindy’s smirk as she asks what happened.

“You’re pissed,” Hot Guy says.

“Well, can you blame me?” I blurt and run the towel over my sticky hands before taking my phone from him. I wipe it off the best I can, knowing I have to take it out of the case ASAP.

“Is that the new iPhone?” he asks, eyebrows going together. “It’s not out yet.”

“I have a beta,” I say. One of the benefits of being a techie nerd, thank you very much.

He shakes his head. “That’s besides the point. I think I ruined your shirt.”

“It’s too tight at the top anyway,” I say then realize I basically said my boobs are too big. Or that I gained weight and it doesn’t fit. Should I be embarrassed?

“It looks good on you,” he says, eyes going past the coffee stain to my cleavage. “Even covered in coffee.”

He’s hitting on me. I haven’t been hit on in … a long time. Suddenly, I need more ice running down my skin.

“Thanks,” I say and blink up at him. His skin is a gorgeous light tan with hints of olive. He has an air to him that demands respect, a confidence that can be seen.

He dries off my wallet and wipes the mess from the outside of the plastic cup, eyeing my name hand written on the side.

“Felicity,” he says and my name rolls off his tongue, his deep voice holding me captive from just speaking one word. “Are you sure I can’t buy you another drink to make for this?”

“I’d like that,” I say honestly. “But I’m running late to meet a client, and I hear the guy’s a real asshole.” I shake my head and sigh. “I’m already dreading going in.”

“Ouch, now I feel even worse. Asshole client and I ruined your shirt.”

“The shirt is the least of my worries,” I say with a smile.

“Then your client must really be as ass.”

I raise my eyebrows. “Yeah, he seems that way. And his secretary isn’t much better.” I wrinkle my nose. “I’m only doing this as a favor to my boss since he’s my friend.” I inhale and slowly let it out. I hook my wallet around my wrist grab my phone and brownie.

“Can I walk you out?” Hot Guy asks and picks up my coffee. “And your hands look kind of full.”

I’m smiling and nodding before I can get any logical words out. “Sure, thanks.”

“I still want to make it up to you.”

“Nah, it’s okay. I really should go and get this over with.”

He laughs. “Hopefully this guy takes it easy on you. Tell him some idiot ran into you and it’s not your fault.”

“I’ll say just that.” My heart flutters when he pushes the door open for me. “That’s me,” I say, motioning to my red Malibu parked right outside the door. I set the brownie and phone on the roof and open the door.

“Sorry again, Felicity,” he says. “Maybe I’ll see you here again. I pretty much live on coffee.”

“Me too. Well, coffee and wine,” I say and laugh at myself. Did I really just say that? Why not tell him that the wine is drunk out of a plastic Butter Beer mug while Ser Pounce circles my feet? 

“Both are essential,” he says and hands me my drink. “Good luck with the asshole client.”

“Thanks, I’ll probably need it.” My eyes flick to the gallery across the street. “This day can’t get much worse, can it?”

“Let’s hope not.” He lets his eyes run over me, slowly, deliberately. He wants me to know he’s checking me out … and liking what he’s seeing.

Holy shit.

I’m fairly confident only this guy can make a coffee shop parking lot an erotic experience. I’m blushing as I turn to get into the car. I close the door and pull my shirt up, untucking it from my skirt. I undo the buttons and yank it off. It’s way too stained and wet to wear. I toss my head back against the seat. What the fuck should I do?

I sigh and hang the shirt on the passenger seat, hoping it might dry if I blast it with the A.C. I look at the clock.

I’m now fifteen minutes late. I put the car in reverse, realize that my phone and brownie are on the hood, and frantically grab them. Then I high-tail it across the street. I get out, get my purse, and gather my composure, catching my reflection in my window. If only I’d worn any other shirt under my blouse than this … Whatever. R2D2 is awesome.

My heart skips a beat. I lean against the door of my car, taking a few minutes to text Erin and calm down. Plus I need to process Hot Guy.

What is wrong with me? I should have flirted back, right? Maybe asked for his name at least? Oh well. I’ll never see him again. I shake my head when I realize that I’ve wasted another five minutes. Now I’m twenty minutes late.

I fluff my hair, take a deep breath—I smell like coffee, though I say that’s not a bad thing—and push my shoulders back. It is what it is. I’m going to go in, set this shit up, then get the hell out of dodge.

I grab my work bag from the back, heft it up over my shoulder, and hold my head up as I walk into the gallery. Mindy looks up when the door opens. Her eyebrows go up as she takes in my Star Wars tank top. It’s form fitting with a scoop neck, showing more of my tits than is appropriate.

“I’m ready to get started,” I say, cutting right to the chase.

“Uh, okay,” she says, blinking back her shock. “I’ll let Ben know you’re here.”

“Thanks.” I set the bag down on her desk, eyeballing the sleek computer that takes the place of the old dinosaur that sat in its place a few days ago. Mindy gets up, repulsion of my fashion choice clear on her face. She’s looking good again today in a cream suit, hair in loose waves pinned back by shiny barrettes. Her makeup is flawless. Seriously, people have skin that even and clear?

Maybe she had some sort of procedure done. I doubt it. I’m sure my tainted high school memories glorified her a bit, my teenage mind thinking her better than she really is, but I’m pretty sure her skin had always been that way. Mine isn’t particularly bad, but I don’t look like a centerfold come to life.

Her heels click on the hardwood floor and she disappears into the gallery. Two of the paintings from Monday are gone, making the entrance look bare. I didn’t doubt the talent of this Ben guy, but I doubted the price tags. Not being into art or anything classy like that, I had no idea what the going rate was for a custom piece like that, though.

I click my nails on the desk as I wait, disliking this Ben guy even more as each minute ticks by. Finally, Mindy trots back to her desk.

“He’ll be right down. You can start with his computer. He’s busy, you know. You should hurry so he can get to work.”

I swallow the retort that’s on the tip of my tongue. I’ll hurry because I want out of here, not because Ben-Diva needs his precious time.

“Sure,” I say and take another breath. A door opens and closes from inside the gallery, and I hear heavy footfalls come downstairs. Ben rounds the corner and it’s all I can do not to let my jaw drop onto the floor. Color rushes to my cheeks.

Son of a bitch.

It’s worse than any Shyamalan twist: Asshole, little-miss-diva Ben is the hot guy from the coffee shop.