One Good Thing (8 page)

My fingers tightened over the mouse when I saw who had sent it.

Hope you felt okay Saturday morning. Has your fondness for whiskey subsided?

My finger automatically clicked Reply. And then I slumped at my desk in a panicked daze for another five minutes before I decided to send a response instead of deleting the message.

I didn’t feel okay on Saturday morning—more like someone hit me in the head with a baseball bat. It’s a good deterrent—I doubt I’ll ever drink that much again. And I now loathe whiskey with the white-hot fury of a thousand suns. How was your weekend?

Send.

Damn, damn, damn! I’d ended the e-mail with a question.

Not as painful as yours, I’d guess. Did the stuff I left help at all? I wasn’t sure if you’d have more of a headache hangover or a my-stomach-is-rebelling-against-me hangover.

-

Unfortunately, I had both. Thanks for the supply kit—it did help. Where did you go to get all of that? I don’t think I’ve had ginger ale in years.

-

Another question! It was like I wasn’t capable of putting a stop to this … my stupid finger just kept hitting Send.

I went to the convenience store on the corner. My grandmother was a firm believer that ginger ale could cure all stomach ailments. So I didn’t think a hangover kit would be complete without it. Speaking of which, there are some insane-looking people at convenience stores late at night … I felt like I should have bought cigarettes or alcohol to up my street cred. Or maybe a weapon.

I laughed out loud before I remembered I was at work. I hoped Evan couldn’t hear me from his office.

Hmm … I suppose you could use a can of ginger ale as a weapon—you could shake the can and then spray it at someone.

-

I’ve never thought of such awesome possibilities. All joking aside, there’s a question that’s been weighing on my mind quite a bit, and I just hope I don’t get sued for sexual harassment for asking it: Has the red thong ever made a work appearance?

My mouth opened; my hands floated over the keyboard; and then, some aspect of myself I’d never recognized pushed me to respond.

I almost called my lawyer just now, you’d better be careful with the kind of e-mails you send. I’ll have you know I’m entirely professional—the red thong stays at home. Unless … you don’t want it to make a work appearance, do you?

I leaned back in my chair after I sent the message, heart thumping a fierce a rhythm.

A message showed up in my inbox less than two minutes later

Do I even need to answer that? It’s an emphatic yes. Wear it tomorrow with a dress.

I blinked. And I was a little ashamed to admit that at some point during our e-mails, a faint ache had begun between my legs. I crossed them under the desk, squeezing my thighs together.

Demanding, are we? What if it’s cold?

-

Wear a coat. Or not. I can keep you warm.

I sucked in a breath. What in the world was I getting myself into? A workplace flirtation was a bad idea … but I still couldn’t quite manage to refuse his demand outright:

I’ll think about it. Now get back to work before you get me in trouble.

*

When I stopped at my closet the next morning and knelt in front of the underwear chest, I still hadn’t decided what to do. My hand reached to the back of the drawer and closed on a skimpy piece of lace.

I withdrew it, staring down at the offensive red garment. But it didn’t seem so offensive anymore.

Next to the thong was a traditional pair of white briefs.

It would be a much safer choice. Safe was good. I’d thought Evan was safe, but now I wasn’t too sure.

I grabbed the briefs, ignoring the flash of—was it disappointment—that settled in my stomach. But I wasn’t the girl who acted on impulse, who entertained thoughts of wearing a thong for a guy she barely knew. I needed to get back to myself.

Back to safety.

I picked out one of my nicer dresses, a dark blue that stopped at the knee and had tight, full-length sleeves, and rushed to the bathroom to take a shower, my respectable Tuesday outfit in tow.

*

In the morning, while I waited for my computer to boot up, I went to the break room and heated a mug of water in the microwave. I kept my eyes focused straight ahead of me as I walked past Evan’s office. Nerves might have been tightening my stomach, but I wasn’t going to let him know it.

I opened a new box of tea and propped my elbows on the counter as I watched it steep.

But I straightened abruptly when I saw long, strong fingers reach for the empty tea packet.

“Irish breakfast,” Evan commented.

“I ran out of Earl Grey,” I said, more shakily than I’d like. “I thought I’d try something different.”

“Which do you like better?”

We were standing side by side. Evan was closer to the doorway, facing the counter by the coffeepot. He reached for a to-go cup from the cupboard.

“I’m not wearing it,” I muttered.

He cast a sidelong glance at me. “Did you want to?”

No
was on the tip of my tongue. But I hesitated. Too long. When I finally said it, it didn’t even sound convincing to me.

“It’s not a good idea,” I added.

“Probably not,” he agreed.

And then I opened my stupid mouth again. “I mean, I would have worn it, and then what?”

Evan tilted his head. “I would have wanted to make sure you were wearing it. I probably would have started with something like this.”

He stepped closer, so I was nearly tucked into his side. I felt his hand graze the inside of my leg, just above my knee. And then it settled more fully, his hand and fingers flexing, his thumb tracing a gentle circle on my inner thigh.

“Oh.” My cheeks felt hot.

“You never answered my question about the tea.”

“I … I like them both …”

Pushing him away would be the right thing to do. It really would. The sensible thing. There wasn’t any universe where getting felt up in the break room by a coworker was a good idea. But this heat radiated from the spot where we connected, where I could feel the outline of every finger pressed to my skin, and I liked the heat a lot more than I should.

I swallowed. “Earl Grey is milder,” I continued. “If you like mild.”

“I don’t,” he said.

He slipped his hand farther under my dress. Just another inch or two and he would graze my underwear. My fingers curled around the mug as I fought the urge to grab his wrist and guide him higher. To settle him fully on the place where I ached.

“Evan?”

“What?”

“Don’t tease me.”

Our eyes caught. My mouth opened on a sharp breath and he followed the movement. But what did I mean? Did I want him to stop? Or did I want him to go ahead and touch me?

“Evan!”

The contact withdrew. It was an abrupt absence. My skin tingled painfully where his hand had been.

Natalie swept into the break room like she owned it, coming up to stand right beside Evan.

“Hey, Natalie,” he said. Maybe I imagined it, but I thought I heard an edge of irritation to his voice. Unless I transferred my own irritation to him.

I fumbled with my tea. It felt like my face was on fire. Along with some other, more private, places of my anatomy.

“I was wondering if you could help me with something. I just put some new software on my computer and it’s not working right—oh, hi Danielle, I didn’t see you back there.” Her voice had changed from slightly husky to coolly polite in the blink of an eye. Unless she was blind, or I’d somehow turned invisible, I was pretty sure she’d seen me.

“Hi,” I said. I didn’t think I was a violent person, but at that moment I wanted to do some serious physical damage. “Did you call the tech support guy?” I suggested mildly, taking out my tea bag. The beverage in my mug was inky black from being steeped too long.

There was dead silence in the room for about ten seconds.

“But Evan’s so good at things like this,” she said. “And you like to help, don’t you?”

“Yeah, it’s no problem,” he answered.

My hands clenched. I breathed through my nose and counted to five, but it didn’t work.

He grabbed his cup and hesitated. “We’ll talk later?”

But I wasn’t feeling very charitable. He’d not only started something he couldn’t finish, leaving me aroused and unsatisfied, he was about to go off with a woman who wanted to make him her next conquest instead of staying to tend to
my
needs.

It was his fault I even
had
needs right now—at 8:15 in the morning in the break room of SLQ.

“That won’t be necessary,” I said, as crisp and professional as I’d ever sounded. If I wasn’t so mad I might have applauded myself.

Evan’s face remained impassive as he turned toward Natalie. And the farther he walked away from me the more pissed off I felt. By the time he exited the room I wanted to scream.

I took a long sip of tea and then spit it back into the sink. I had no idea how long it had been steeping, but it tasted too bitter to drink.

I dumped the rest of it down the drain and went back to my cubicle, ornery, un-caffeinated, and wanting.

*

Even though I’d been furiously covering ground trying to put as much space between us as possible, Evan caught up to me on the sidewalk after work.

He fell into pace beside me, keeping up easily with his longer legs.

I stopped and faced him, knowing it was useless. “What?” I snapped.

“I wanted to apologize for earlier, I got carried away.”

I mouthed the words.
Carried away. Carried away?!
“Yes, you did,” I said. I might’ve been able to lie to him, but I couldn’t lie to myself—I wasn’t only angry because of what he’d done; I was also angry because he hadn’t finished. And because of the reason he hadn’t finished. “Did you fix Natalie’s problem?” I asked sourly.

He looked down at me; his eyes glinted in the light from the setting sun that reflected off the cars and windows around us. He had the nerve to smile as though he found something vastly amusing.

“Yeah—it wasn’t that difficult. She could have figured it out herself if she’d done an Internet search.”

“Imagine that,” I said. I hadn’t known it was possible for my voice to get even sourer, but it did.

“Look, I didn’t want to leave with her. But it would’ve been rude if I’d refused to help.”

“And you’re such a
nice
guy,” I snarled. “God forbid you look rude.” I wasn’t going to say anything else, but it slipped out when he stared at me with a baffled expression. “Didn’t you think you had a more pressing matter to attend to?”

“A more pressing …” he trailed off. And then he laughed. “
That’s
what has you so pissed off?”

I shifted my plain black purse from one shoulder to the other, simply for something to do. “No.”

“I didn’t know I had a deadline; you’re a very impatient woman, Danielle Meyer.” His hand gripped my elbow; he reeled me in, a fish on a hook.

All of my instincts pointed toward one action—surrender. But now that I’d distanced myself from my desire, now that I had the added benefit of the bracing autumn chill, my mind overcame my treacherous body.

I pulled my arm from his grasp. “It was a good thing Natalie walked in. I got carried away too—I don’t
do
things like that. Anyway, I just broke up with my boyfriend … I’m not ready to fool around. Especially not with a coworker. We have to see each other every day; it would make going to work way too awkward.”

His hand fell to his side, useless. “I don’t normally do things like that either.”

I shrugged. “Then it should be easy to stop it from happening again.”

“Easy,” he said, “Right. Are you sure that’s really what you want?”

“Positive.”

He stared me down. His eyes when the sun hit them were the purest blue I’d ever seen, like a summer sky, and just as unfathomable. After a minute of simply looking at me, he said, “Okay.”

“Okay?” I was bewildered. I’d expected a bit more fight than that.

“Can I at least drive you home?”

“It’s only about a twenty-minute walk.”

“It’s colder out today.”

As soon as he spoke, the wind picked up, stinging my eyes and bare legs. I folded my arms over my coat, annoyed and shivering.

“Fine.” I capitulated. “I’ll let you take me home.”

I followed him silently to the SLQ parking garage, my short-heeled shoes clacking an angry beat on the pavement. But then I felt like I was being ill mannered and I already knew how annoying Evan could be when I was rude to him. “Thanks for driving me,” I muttered.

He grinned. “My pleasure, ma’am,” he said with a bad southern drawl.

I rolled my eyes. “Okay, Rhett Butler.”

There were people waiting for the elevator, so we went down the stairwell. I tried to maintain a good foot of space between us by hugging the rail.

Once we were settled in and buckled, he lifted something from the cup holder on his side. “Here’s my MP3 player if you want to listen to anything.”

I scrolled through his selection; there were a few modern bands, but it was mostly musicians from the sixties and seventies. “I think I’ve heard of Leonard Cohen before … is he any good?”

Evan grinned as we rolled toward the exit of the parking garage. “He’s the man. His stuff can be kind of melancholy though; he wrote poetry before he got into music.”

“Yeah?” I asked, interested in spite of myself. “Are you saying you think poets are melancholy?”

“Aren’t they?”

I thought back to all the poets I was familiar with. “I guess they can have a tendency toward that.”

“You like poetry?”

“I like to read it. I don’t write it or anything.”

“Can you recite something for me?”

I blinked at him and gave a nervous laugh. “What?”

“Something you like.”

He smiled at me, and I looked away, out the window. The streets were clogged with rush hour traffic. Riding with him would probably take longer than walking, but I wouldn’t be cold, at least.

I closed my eyes, leaned my head against the glass. And battling a surge of self-consciousness, I began to recite one of my favorite Walt Whitman poems. At first, my voice wobbled a bit, and I wished I’d picked something shorter. But partway through, I got lost in the words and the emotions, and my voice gradually steadied.