Page 50 of How to Deal
Thursday morning, I notice Tathan’s car is not in the parking lot.
I’m both comforted and conflicted by this. Last night after the hot tub, and that Becca chick, and after he said, “I see you,” I couldn’t sleep wondering what it meant.
When I set my purse on my desk, I notice Paul is in his office, which is rare these days. Most of the time I only see him once a week.
“Good Morning, Amalie. What’s your afternoon look like today?” Paul asks as I pass his office. This is bizarre because he never asks me this. He’s a laid-back boss and usually, as long as I’m busy, he’s never in my business.
“Nothing really.” I step toward his door, pausing just before I enter. “What’s up?”
Besides the fact that your son is probably the hottest male figure on the planet and I want to grind with him like Pretty Ricky says. And we sit in a hot tub every night drinking wine so I can stare at his half-naked body without shame.
Don’t tell Paul any of that.
“Do you need me to do something?”
“No. Just checking what your day looks like,” he says, and picks up his phone, motioning for me to close the door.
Well, that was weird.
I disregard his strange behavior and continue walking to my cubicle, irritated I overslept and couldn’t get coffee this morning. Not only did I not make it to do some laps, but you do not want to know me when I haven’t had coffee. It’s like a cocaine addiction for me, but cheaper and legal. If I hadn’t stayed up until nearly two stalking Tathan’s Facebook page, I wouldn’t have overslept.
As I sit down at my desk, I see a sticky note on my computer with handwriting I’ve never seen before, but I have an idea as to who’s it might be. I examine the handwriting for a moment before Zane comes bouncing in with a box of paperwork we need to go through from the Bank of America project.
“Hello, beautiful,” he says, throwing himself into my chair beside my desk. “Oh, who’s that from?” He rips the note from my hand, giving me a paper cut.
“How should I know, asshole?” I suck on my bleeding finger and then gag because the taste of blood is repulsive to me. “I just got here, and I’m no handwriting specialist.”
I know I’m being rude, but hello, no coffee yet. Zane knows he can’t expect so much from me.
“Wow, chillax, muff.” He pats my hair. Zane takes the note and reads it aloud. “Meet me for lunch?” He laughs and gives me a smile. “I know who that is.”
“Who?”
I don’t know why I ask this because I’m 93 percent sure who it’s from.
“Elliott Warren. . . or do you call him Tathan?” His smile is so wide it’s scary. “Which does he prefer?”
“Jesus Christ, what’s wrong with you? Give me that.” I rip the note from his hands. “We have work to do.” I push him off my desk because he is practically lying on it as if he owns the goddamn thing. “Get up, you whore. This isn’t your bed.”
“Fine.” He huffs and sits down with the box of paperwork on his lap. “Let’s get this over with.”
We’re almost finished when my desk phone rings. Both Zane and I look over at it like it’s a bomb or something, because honestly, no one has my number so why would anyone call me. I don’t even know the number myself. The only phone I ever answer is for Paul.
Zane lunges for the phone, and before I can stop the little shit, he’s answering it for me. “Amalie Davis’s desk, how can I help you?” He’s cheerful, and I’m sure he’s hoping it’s some construction worker he can ask out. It wouldn’t be the first time.
He makes me sick that he can be this nice at eight in the morning. I need at least until ten and several coffees before I can resemble the living, and even then you’re asking a lot of me.
I throw myself into my enormous swivel chair and stare out at the city through the large glass windows behind my cubicle.
Zane giggles, which always sounds weird coming from a twenty-five-year-old man, but he does it. “Oh, yes, she’s right here.” Before I can run away, he pushes the phone to my ear and whispers, “Be nice to him.”
Him? Him who?
“This is Amalie.” I attempt to be professional, but I’m annoyed because I know who it is. Who else would Zane tell me to be nice to?
“Did you get my note?” I’m not sure whether I should smile or growl at him.
“How did you get this number?” I demand.
