doing just fine holding a conversation without me.
Blaine: What’s going on with that chick from work?
Brooks: He said nothing but he’s full of shit.
Blaine: Agree. We saw the way she was looking at you, dude. She looked thirsty.
Thirsty? What the fuck?
Messages continue popping up, but I ignore them, shifting my focus to Spencer. “Are we sharing this cake with anyone or pigging out on it ourselves?”
“Up to you—it’s your cake.”
“So I can just take it home without sharing?”
Spencer narrows her eyes. “Technically, you could.”
“But?”
“Then I’d have to kill you.” An imaginary angel halo floats above her pretty head. “I brought a serving knife.”
“You would.”
“Sue me for liking cake.”
Her hair is down today and curlier than I’ve seen it. She’s wearing blue—my favorite color. She looks pretty, and I wasn’t fucking around when I told her she’s beautiful.
Or alluded to it when she jested about it.
Weak not to come out and say it to her face, but I can’t risk her getting overly attached.
Then why did you kiss her, fucker?
Because I’m selfish.
And I like her.
Ugh. A lot.
How did I not know she was here, under my nose, the entire time I’ve been working here? If I had known, there’s a good chance we would already be in a relationship and I would never have agreed to that dumb bet in the first place.
Brooks forfeited—you can, too.
Brooks makes more money than I do. He can afford to give up the valuable tickets and timeshare and four-wheeler; I can’t. My plan is to sell that shit and make a profit, maybe buy another piece of real estate and use it as income property.
Brooks will kill me when I sell the baseball season tickets— seasonal seats for the Jags are impossible to come by; families wait years for a chance to buy them, which doesn’t come often because they can be passed down from generation to generation.
Still, if I can make six figures selling them…
It’s less of a risk than the start of a new relationship. What if it fizzles and fades, and we break up and I’m left with nothing? No girlfriend, no income property. I will have given it up for nothing.
There are no guarantees.
My laptop pings again with more messages, coming in one after the other consecutively. It’s obnoxious and annoying.
Brooks: For real though, bro, if you LIKE her forget about the fucking bet.
Blaine: Agree. Definitely forget about the fucking bet. I’m going to win it anyway—you have failure written all over you. Date her.
Brooks: You can sleep with her and still win. There is no rule about fucking a girl, you just can’t date her exclusively.
Blaine: Shut up, asshole, don’t encourage him.
Brooks: This from the guy who broke up with his girlfriend to win a bet.
Blaine: My level of commitment is legendary. Neither of you can say the same.
Brooks: We don’t know if Philly Cheesesteak is going to dump this chick or not—it ain’t over until the chick is crying from having her heart shit on.
Blaine: He won’t dump her—he doesn’t want this bad enough.
Brooks: Why are we even talking about this? We were trying to decide if we were going out this weekend—Abbott has plans with her grandparents so I’m a free man.
Blaine: You want to have a club meeting THIS WEEKEND? Lame.
The messages go on and on and on, the two of them arguing.
“Wow. You thought my face was serious?” Spencer’s voice interrupts my thoughts. “What is going through that mind of yours? Yikes.”
“Nothing,” I lie. “This project is just stressing me out.”
Liar, liar, liar.
“Why don’t we eat cake? Would that make you feel better?”
No. That would go against yet another rule of mine: eating anything non-breakfast-like before noon. “Yeah, sure.”
She smiles prettily. “I know you have a rule about eating a real meal before dessert, but cake always makes everything better, especially before lunch. You run and get some plates and napkins and I’ll cut it, okay?”
Sounds good to me.
I stand, pushing my chair back, then push it back in so it’s out of her way when she comes around to cut the cake. I’m halfway to the breakroom before I realize I’ve been humming all the way down the aisle.
There are a few people around when I get there, making coffee or eating baked goods, casually shooting the shit.
Two of them are from the purchasing department, which I’ll resume more contact with once my shit is moved back into my office space.
“…that hellhole. All she does is blow her nose and cough. One more day and