Him: “After you, darlin’. Try not to murder any laptops today.”
Me: temporarily forgets how walking works
What the Wine Club definitely saw through the building manager’s office peephole where I know they meet for gossip gathering: Me, stumbling out of the elevator like a baby giraffe while Australia’s most dangerous man steadied me with those hands that could probably crush concrete.
Their current theory, according to my air vent intel: I’m either his handler for a top-secret mission or we’re filming a reality show. Mr Weatherby is convinced it’s both.
UPDATE: I just got home from work and there’s a note on my door that says, “If the laptop gives you trouble again, I know people.” WITH A WINKY FACE.
A WINKY FACE.
From a man they call SAVAGE.
Me
MEGAN, HE LEFT ME A NOTE.
Megan
What kind of note?
Me
WITH A WINKY FACE.
Megan
That’s it, I’m calling Brad.
Me
DON’T YOU DARE.
Megan
Then stop using caps lock.
Me
I CAN’T, IT’S STUCK LIKE MY BRAIN.
Current status: Googling “can you die from sexual tension” and “what does a winky face mean from a biker”. Also “do dimples count as illegal weapons in Queensland” and “how to act normal after lift incident (urgent).”
Also, I’m officially changing this blog name to “How to Have a Complete Mental Breakdown Over a Man in a Leather Jacket” because that seems more accurate. Alternative title: “Ways to Embarrass Yourself in Front of a Hot Biker: A Comprehensive Guide by Someone Who Should Know Better.”
P.S. To the building maintenance team who will inevitably review the lift security footage to figure out why it stopped: I was NOT staring at his arms the entire time. I was conducting a very important structural analysis of the lift walls. For safety purposes.
P.P.S. Does anyone know if it’s possible to tell if someone can see you pacing on your balcony at night? Asking for a friend. That friend is me. I’m the friend. Also, to the Wine Club members who’ve started taking notes on my balcony appearances: I can see you pretending to water your plants at midnight. Those are plastic plants, Mrs P. I’m a disaster, not blind.
P.P.P.S. Just overheard the Wine Club upgrading their theory from “secret reality show” to “undercover romance novel research.” Mr Weatherby swears he saw a camera crew. It was just the food delivery guy, but bless his conspiracy-loving heart.
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WHY WORKING LATE IS SUDDENLY MY FAVOURITE THING
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