I remember our first meeting well.
I WALKED IN, ABOUTto unleash my fury, and all I could see was ass: heart-shaped, covered in some sort of red, flowy fabric, and begging for my hands to grab it.
Now, I pride myself on professionalism, but I nearly lost my shit right there. I must have moaned or coughed or something, because the owner of aforementioned ass turned toward me and said, “Oh, are you the IT guy? I think we’re good. We’ve mopped up most of the mess with paper towels. At least it’s not smoking, like the last one did. That was really ugly.”
Never in my life have I wanted to both strangle and kiss the hell out of someone simultaneously. Well, not until that moment. She was gorgeous. Like traffic-stopping gorgeous. And she looked so earnest standing there with half a roll of paper towels, trying to right the wrong she’d committed against this poor machine. I wanted to tell her that the machine would be fine. I wanted to assure her that her efforts would pay off, that we’d set it in front of a fan for a few hours, and it would be in working order in no time. I wanted to say anything that would bring a smile to that beautiful face, but I’d basically walked into a crime scene and the words racing through my mind were not kind ones. I took a deep breath and ventured forward.
“Did you take the battery out?”
“Battery? Where’s the battery?”
“In the back,” I said with more patience than I felt. She flipped the machine over with a thud and milky liquid dripped down into a puddle on the desk.
“Oh, crap. Molly, I think we’re going to need more paper towels.” It was then that I noticed we weren’t alone. Molly, whom I’d met earlier that week, offered a quick smile and beat a hasty exit, saying she’d scrounge some up from the staff room.
I grabbed my screwdriver and began to remove the back plate. With every turn of the tool, the computer emitted a squishy, squelchy sound, and I knew the outlook was grim. But I’m basically a miracle-worker when it comes to all things tech. And that’s not bragging; it’s a fact. I’m like the Doogie Howser of computers: young, curly-haired, and a certified genius.
A quick glance to my right revealed the culprit: a nearly empty clear plastic cup, sans dome top and straw, with the name Elaine scrawled on the side in black Sharpie. “So, I’m guessing that was full?”
“Yep. And it was a Trenta. With extra caramel.”
I couldn’t quite figure out if her somber tone was in deference to the fact that she carelessly murdered her laptop or in reference to the fact that she was now without her coveted beverage. I peeled the back off gently and a deluge is the only word that came to mind. Coffee literally poured out of the machine as I tilted it toward a trash can.
“Poor Merv. We had our issues, sure, but he didn’t deserve that end.” What was she talking about? I looked at her like she’d lost her damn mind. And that’s because she sounded like she’d lost her damn mind. “Merv?”
“Yeah. I always thought he looked like a Merv.”
“Looks like a Dell to me.”
“That must be his last name.” A hint of a smile ghosted her lips.
Ok, I thought, now she’s just messing with me.
Her laptop was soaked, and her desk was wet with the carnage of a fumbled latte. She squared her shoulders and thanked me for coming . I nodded, because there were no words, and then, counterintuitively, she dismissed me. Dismissed me—the IT guy—though I stood there, my hands dripping, fixing her fucking mess. She smiled and said she’d already ordered a black hat, a rabbit, and a smoke machine from Amazon, and therefore had no need of a tech wizard.
Again, I believed her for half a second before she burst into hysterical giggles. “The look on your face is priceless.” I was rewarded for my entertainment value with another smile. “Please, don’t leave. I appreciate your help more than I can say, and I can’t even properly thank you because I didn’t catch your name. I can’t very well call you IT Guy.”
I extended my hand before I remembered that it was dripping wet. I attempted to retract it, but she was already mid-grip and the way she scrunched her nose at the squelch of our hands was adorable. It made me want to rid the world of all upsetting sounds. I’ll ban chalkboards and straws for this woman.
I released her hand and wiped both of ours with the last of the paper towels. “Sorry about that. I’m Simon, by the way.”
“‘Simon.” She smiled at the taste of my name on her lips, and I’m not lying when I tell you that I damn near proposed just then. “Simon, the IT guy...that’s a little wordy, no? We’ve got to come up with a better nickname.”
AND SO BEGAN OURrelationship, if you can even call it that. She breaks computers, and I fix them. She says funny things, and I laugh. I say outrageous things, and she laughs. Not a week has gone by since then that she hasn’t summoned my powers for any variety of completely ridiculous requests. She used to call me Potter, but that didn’t stick. She toyed with a few other names too, but Wonderboy is the one I can’t seem to shake.
I lean back in her comfy chair, waiting for the program to load. Her desk is crowded with post-its and brightly colored pens. She’s got plants on every flat surface, and there’s a loveseat in the corner. A freakin’ loveseat. This place looks more like a living room than an office, but that doesn’t surprise me. Elaine is the kind of person who makes things warm and comfortable,. She says hello to everyone and knows every single staffer by name.
I key in the code and wait, glancing at the bookshelf I helped her put together a few weeks ago. I came in because she texted an SOS, and it turned out that the plug had fallen from the socket. As I was teasing her mercilessly, I noticed the giant IKEA box propped against the wall, and I offered to help her put her bookshelf together. It looks nice here, and I see she’s lined it with more books than most people read in a lifetime. Of course, these are mostly editing manuals and style guides. I recognizeStrunk and Whitefrom Freshman Comp, along with a few others, but there’s one that seems out of place, smaller than the rest. I get up and walk the two steps to the shelf and pluck the outlier from the lineup. And when I read the title, I nearly drop it on the floor.The Highlander’s Desire.Huh. A glance at the cover of the well-worn book assures me that the title is accurate. There, on what I can only assume are highlands, is a busty, scantily-clad redhead bent before a half-naked, bearded man wearing nothing but his family plaid. Damn. Now the visual of Elaine reading this book and picturing herself being ravaged by a Highlander is engraved in my brain. Christ, I’m halfway to hard. And now I’m wondering where I can get a kilt.
I shake my head and return the book to its rightful spot, and then I concentrate on baseball stats. From 1998.
I need to shake this attraction and move the hell on. Yeah, Nick and Betsy and Duncan keep pushing me to ask her out, but they don’t get it. And after my failed attempt to even try to ask her out, I’m getting discouraged. She’s way out of my league, but that’s not even the biggest issue. Hell, she was checking me out hardcore when I drove her to work on Wednesday, and she was damn near drooling over my arms ten minutes ago. So, impossible as it seems, attraction may not be the issue. So what’s stopping me from passing her a note in the hallway, you ask?
I think my age freaks her out.
And that’s dumb, because I can’t change my age.
She’s always bringing up how young I am, though I’m not sure what our actual age difference is. And I’m sure as hell not asking. My genius IQ isn’t just for show.
