Chapter 7

Emory-

Work is hard when your brain isn’t working. Or rather, when your brain is busy doing something a lot less useful. I find myself shaking my head again and again to return my mind to what I’m supposed to be doing. Despite the client's brief, I keep gravitating toward masculine browns and warm, smooth tan colors with pops of dark mauve where his lips perfectly set off the rest of his face… shit. Looks like two of my three resolutions are headed down the toilet. No way will I ever see him again– even if we bumped into each other coming into work today when we never have before, I don’t think I could stand to look him in the face after making an idiot of myself like I did. I run over our short conversation again and again, hoping that I came across more smoothly than I feel like I did. Honestly, it’s even worse in review.

Mr. Anatomy– Logan, his name is Logan– might be the hottest man I’ve ever seen in person, and he’s far beyond the likes of me. Especially if I can’t get a handle on my damn mouth. For such a relatively small part of my body, my mouth has gotten me in more trouble than I care to contemplate. The best I can hope for is that he forgets me entirely and maybe in a couple of years I can meet him again. By then I’ll have a different haircut, maybe a different style, I’ll have dropped those fifteen… twenty pounds, and I’ll be completely unrecognizable as the weirdo from the staircase. Then, oh then, my future self can seduce him and maybe even sate this unreasonable craving. I can be patient enough to play the long game, right? The state of my underwear says probably not. They might actually be uncomfortable enough to go with a cab rather than squelching all nine blocks on my way home. 

I’m just getting packed up– forty-two minutes later than usual, to make up for my later start, which took some very fast talking to get my manager to agree to– when I feel a shadow block the light coming from behind my desk. Since I should be the last person here today, I’m understandably alarmed. I’m still debating whether to acknowledge the looming person– he has to be a man, I don’t know any women that tall with shoulders that wide– when he clears his throat. I know that voice, even without words. I’ve been parsing the nuances of that voice all day. Shit, here we go again.

With only a slight wince– be brave, Emory– I swivel around only to come face to belt with the object of my recent obsession. I tilt my head back because he hasn’t given me enough room to stand without being (gulp) right on top of him. While I wouldn’t object, I’m sure at this point he’s one wrong move from calling the police to cart me to the closest shrink. Do police do that? I’m not even totally sure who the right service for that is, or if one even exists… Shit! Be present! What do I even say? 

“Um…. Can I help you?” I groan in my head. God, anything else would’ve been better. I feel my cheeks heating to match my hair. I’m sure by this point I look like some kind of felted tomato. Luckily for me, Logan grins at my unintentional callback to this morning. It doesn’t even seem like he’s entirely laughing at me, and if I could laugh at myself in this situation I’m sure we’d have a made-for-Hallmark bonding moment. I just can’t get over my nerves and awkwardness enough to achieve that level of suave. 

“This time, you actually can. Good evening, Emory. Mind walking down with me?” He finally takes a step back to let me out of my chair. This is both a relief and a disappointment, depending on which part of my brain you’re asking– the yammering anxiety monkey or the preening vixen that is admittedly a bit malnourished at this point. 

“Not.. at all. What can I do for you?” I have a few ideas, if he’s open to suggestions.

“I actually work a couple floors above you, in project management. I want to ask about your work– how you feel it’s going, what you feel could use improvement, the like. Then… I want to ask you on a date. I’d like it if you would join me for dinner at some point this weekend.” Logan just throws it out there– calm, confident, hot as fuck. I’d love to get dinner, and breakfast the next morning, if I’m honest, but I can’t make myself think of anything over the wordless exclamation points scrolling in an endless line across my mind’s eye. He’s making eye contact, even, and I can’t think well enough to look away. I feel like I’m lost in pools of milk chocolate, and I know I’ve had lovely dreams along those exact lines. I wouldn’t even have to do cardio after. I’m sure Logan could work me better than any treadmill… Unfortunately, this line of thought has made my panties even more uncomfortable just as Logan takes a deep breath and gives me a crooked smile in triumph like I’ve already said yes, which my mouth does without my consciously realizing. 

“I would love– I mean, I’m free all weekend. I mean, I could do Saturday night, if that works for you, too?” Smooth as gravel, Emory. The crooked smile becomes a deep chuckle. God, he even laughs attractively? This is both the best and the worst.

“Yes, Emory, I can do Saturday night. What’s your number? You can send me your address and I’ll pick you up at 6.” I give him my number and text him my address right there in front of him before I even realize I should be nervous about a near-stranger now knowing where I live. Genius. Those safety classes my dad put me through in my teens obviously could do with a refresher course. I slowly gather my things, giving him an opportunity to walk away now that his mission is completed. That way I’ll get a chance to hyperventilate before I have to do those freaking stairs again. He… doesn’t leave, though.

 He must catch the confusion on my face because he smiles bigger and says “that address isn’t far from here. I could walk you home, if you’re comfortable with that?” How does breathing work? Did I last breathe in or out? I suddenly can’t remember how normal humans act.

“Uh, yeah, that works. Thank you.” There goes my hyperventilation time. I have no idea how I'm going to hold myself together until we get to my house.