“I’m so sorry. I’ll get that right away.”
I turned on my computer and scrolled through my emails, sorting them all by importance. Of course, Alyssa’s latest email was pushed straight to the top.
Subject: Get Over Yourself.
Thank you for the childish picture text of the white dust that was outside your condo this morning. I really appreciated it, but I can assure you that that is NOT what the inside of my vagina looks like right now.
Not that it’s any of your business, but I don’t need to get laid every other day to satisfy my needs. They are WELL taken care of with a VARIETY of tools.
—Alyssa
Subject: Re: Get Over Yourself.
I sent you two pictures. One of the white dust and one of a dried up lake with dying animals. Was the second picture more accurate?
The only tool your pu**y needs is my tongue. It’s here whenever you want it, and it works in a “VARIETY” of ways.
—Thoreau
“Here you are, Mr. Hamilton.” Jessica suddenly set my coffee on the desk. “Can I ask you something?”
“No, you may not.”
“I thought so,” she said, lowering her voice and looking into my eyes. “I know this is a bit unprofessional, but I need a date for the gala next month.
“Then find a date for the gala next month.”
“That was my way of asking you to be my date...”
I blinked. I needed to find a way to word this “Hell no” very carefully.
Jessica was fresh out of college—way too damn young for me, working here because her grandfather started this firm, and looking for much more than I’d ever be willing to give. I’d overheard her several times on her lunch breaks, talking about how she wanted to be married before she turned twenty five. She also apparently wanted to be a stay-at-home mom with six kids, and live in a house in the suburbs.
In other words, she was completely out of her f**king mind.
“So, what do you say?” She smiled.
I tried not to roll my eyes. “Jessica...”
“Yes?” Her eyes were full of hope.
“Look, sweetheart. Not only would it be highly inappropriate for the two of us to ever engage in any type of relationship outside of this office, but I’m not the man you’re looking for. At all. Trust me.”
“Not even for one night?”
“The words ‘one night’ in my book hold certain expectations that you couldn’t possibly meet. So, no. Go do some work.”
“Is ‘one night’ a code for sex?”
“Why are you still in my office?”
“I wouldn’t tell anyone if we had sex,” she whispered. “I’ve actually fantasized about it since we first met. And, since you never have any calls on the books from a girlfriend, I’m assuming you’re available.”
“I’m not.”
“I walked in on you while you were in the restroom once... You’re at least nine inches I think.”
What the f**k?!