as I hate to admit it, Spencer is a sweet girl who means well, and for all the bickering we do…
It kind of turns me on, too?
Easy women are not my thing. Never have been. Bitches aren’t either, but Spencer isn’t really an asshole—just goofy and playful and determined as fuck.
Like me.
“Stop watching me,” she tells me without looking up, tapping away like a maniac—something I have not seen her do in days.
“I’m not.” I totally am.
She looks up, a lopsided grin on her face. “Stop.”
“You’re not the boss of me.”
“You’re not the boss of me.” She’s parroting our first argument from three days ago.
“Spencer, you’re always bossy.” Also, stop working. I want to waste time and flirt with you and hear whatever outlandish shit you want to say.
“If you would stop staring while I’m trying to work, we wouldn’t be arguing. Take a picture—it lasts longer.”
“I’m trying to take a mental picture. This is a National Geographic moment—you out in the wild, actually working.”
“Wow Phil, those are some harsh words. Harsh.” Spencer rubs her upper arm as if she’s been scalded. “That burns. Burns me deep.”
An eye roll and she’s back to ignoring me in favor of the design layout on her screen. I want to see it, inspect it further. Get an idea of how good she is at her job.
I roll my seat away from my desk and rise. Move around the desk to stand behind her.
“What are you doing?” So suspicious this one.
“I want to see what you’re working on.”
“My God, please—go sit down.”
“Can’t. Already up.”
“I cannot work with you standing over me. It’s weird.”
Yeah, it kind of is. Feels super intimate all of a sudden, especially when I bend to get a better look at the screen without the glare and catch a whiff of her ponytail.
Automatically, my eyes stray down the back of her neck; she has a birthmark at her nape, a cherry red one that rises up into her dark hair. I wonder if she’s ever noticed, or if anyone has ever pointed it out, or if she’s the type of girl who is sensitive about imperfections on her body.
Most likely? Not.
Spencer—if I’ve learned anything about her—would tell me to piss off if I commented on it, good or bad, because Spencer walks tall and seems to give no shits.
“If you’re going to hover, you have to tell me a secret.”
“Okay.” I automatically agree, because I’m only half listening while openly staring at the graceful curve of her neck. “Wait—what?”
“If you’re going to stand over me like you’re my supervisor and watch me work, you have to pony up a secret.”
“Uh—that’s not even close to being a fair trade.”
Her shoulders rise and fall in a shrug. “Then go sit down.”
I go sit down. There are no secrets I’m willing to spill to her face, despite having a mental list of them.
I am in a secret club, Spencer, but can tell you nothing about it or I’ll lose a bet.
Last night I dreamt of you naked. Unfortunately, Humphrey (who sleeps at the foot of the bed) was chasing squirrels in between snoring and woke me up mid-dream—but I confess you were not wearing clothes, and I woke up with a raging hard-on this morning. Thanks to you.
Speaking of raging hard-ons: once, in high school, I passed out naked in the locker room while taking a shower, and the guys started a rumor that I have a micro-penis.
I do not, in fact, have a tiny dick.
Some of the assholes from high school still call me Tiny.
Occasionally my sister does, too.
We’re quiet for a while; I manage to focus my concentration on a development project. Schedule a meeting for the morning so I won’t have to rush in—so I won’t have to sit and covertly gawk at Spencer like a creep.
God, I’m a pervert.
The day drags on and I find myself watching the clock.
Three o’clock and we haven’t spoken in an hour. Spencer ordered us lunch at noon, leaving only to grab the delivery from the lobby, returning with two brown paper bags.
She plunked one on my desk, out of my way, fumes wafting to my nose and making my stomach groan. I polished off a hot roast beef sandwich in record time, and the baked beans and slaw that came with it.
For a girl who likes to boss me around, she sure knows how to spoil me.
Secret number 7: I’m going to miss her after tomorrow.