I usually would. We swapped stories of life on a farm.
I watched the expressions slide across his face like clouds. We hung out for hours, laughing like old friends, as comfortable as a pair of slippers.
I should be happy and excited. I’m should be polishing my job application. I should be thinking about a second date. I end up doing the one thing I shouldn’t. I lie in bed with my eyes closed, replaying the kiss.
Shortcake, if we were flirting, you’d know about it.
Maybe he forgot I was Lucinda Hutton, people-pleasing Strawberry Shortcake, and I morphed into something different for him. An enclosed space, different makeup, my dress short and my perfume fresh. In a moment ruled by insanity, I was the object of his lust from the time it took us to travel from tenth floor to basement. And he was definitely mine.
I needed to test a theory I’ve had for a while. What theory? How long is a while? If I were some kind of human experiment, he could have had the decency to give me his conclusion.
When I think about his teeth biting softly down on my bottom lip, I get a clenching flutter between my legs. When I think of his hand on the back of my thigh, I have to reach down and feel where his fingers spread. The hardness of his body? I can skip breathing for a bit. I wonder how I tasted to him. How I felt.
I’m loafing around in my pajamas at three P.M., paralyzed by the looming application deadline, when my door buzzer startles me. My first thought is it’s Joshua, come to drag me back to work. Instead, it’s a deliveryman with flowers. A huge bouquet of lipstick-red roses. I pinch open the little envelope and the card says three whole words.
You’re always beautiful.
There’s no signature but it doesn’t need one. I can imagine Jeanette’s expression softening as she hands Danny a Post-it note detailing my address with a muttered, You didn’t get this from me. Even HR ladies break the rules for love.
I text him: Thank you so much!!
He replies almost instantly: I had a great time. I’d love to see you again.
I reply: Definitely!
I stand, hands on hips, looking at the flowers. The ego boost couldn’t have been timed better. I turn back to my computer. That job will be mine. And Joshua will be gone.
“Let’s get this finished.”
HE’S A BIG blur of mustard out of the corner of my eye when I walk in on Friday. I hang my coat and walk straight into Helene’s office. For once she’s in early. I could enfold her in my arms and squeeze.
“I’m here,” I tell her. She waves me in and I close the door behind me.
“Is it in?” I nod.
“Joshua’s is too. And two external applicants so far. How was your date? Are you all right?”
She’s always the picture of composure. Today she’s wearing a blazer over what is probably a pure silk T-shirt, tucked into a wool skirt. Nothing as common as cotton for Helene. I hope when she dies she bequeaths her wardrobe to me.
I ease into a chair. “It was fine. Danny Fletcher in design. I hope that’s okay; he’s finishing up next week to freelance.”
“Shame. He does good work. Seeing him won’t be a problem.”
My mind flashes to kissing Joshua in the elevator. That’s a problem, all right.
“But something happened,” Helene surmises.
“I had a huge argument with Joshua before the date, and it rattled me. I woke up feeling unstable. Like if I came in here we’d both be wheeled out by paramedics, drenched in blood.”
Helene is eyeing me speculatively. “What was the argument about?”
Maybe it isn’t such a good idea to vent about my personal issues with Helene.