I pressed Publish on my ad just as the subway reached my stop. I could hear the voices of Tara and Jeremy inside my head, asking me what the actual hell I thought I was doing, soliciting a stranger to live with me in New York City when I had a free place to live back home.
I’d done it once before, and it had led me to Nicole. Aside from abruptly moving to Peoria right before rent was due, she’d been fine. I had faith it could happen again. And maybe this time, the new roommate wouldn’t run screaming to Illinois after a few months.
I hefted my work bags, hit the platform, and made my way to Fairchild Enterprises like I did five days a week. I smiled to myself as I basked in the early morning hullabaloo of Wall Street. So many suits, designer heels, immaculate hair styles. Today, I wore a form-fitting pencil skirt I wasn’t too sure about. I hadn’t designed it myself, but I’d found it on a discount rack and fallen in love. My ruffled blouse barely contained my breasts, and my bra strap kept slipping down. I looked good, but I felt wildly uncomfortable, and that was already breaking my cardinal rule of fashion.
Maybe that was the fashion hill I was going to die on. That oronly find dresses you can go to a buffet in.Because I hated clothes that didn’t allow for the expansion of one’s gut after a meal.
My heels clicked over the shiny floor of the lobby in the Fairchild building. On the twentieth floor, I made my familiar winding route through the office suite to the back, where my desk and Damian’s office sat.
Today, his office door was cracked.
I set my things down quietly, more hopeful than I wanted to admit that maybe he’d be joining me this week.
I took a few moments to listen for his voice or any rustling. Our area was totally quiet, except for the distant laughter of some of the receptionists down the hall. My hope started to deflate, and I began unpacking my things: today’s lunch, my work tablet, my notebook, my design sketchbook.
I adjusted my bra strap no fewer than six times during the first half hour of my workday, keeping vigilant watch over Damian’s office. At just after 9:30, soft footsteps shuffled down the carpeted hallway.
Damian strode into view, looking at some papers in his hand.
I froze, suddenly unsure. Did I pretend last Monday hadn’t happened? Did we continue as normal, boss and employee? Or maybe I should lead with a joke about our make out session…
“Morning, Jessa.” He jerked his chin in my direction, meeting my gaze for the briefest of moments. Then he slipped into his office, closing the door softly behind him.
My breath whooshed out of me. That had been normal. Casual. Completely fine.
I should have been okay with that.
But I wasn’t.
I lasted ten minutes before I picked up the phone to call Damian with the first genuine question I could think of. It was about the event, so I needed his opinion.
“Damian,” I whispered into the phone, though I wasn’t sure why. Like if I spoke too loudly, it would force him back to working in the penthouse. “I need your input on something.”
He paused. “What is it?”
“Colors.”
“Aren’t you the color expert?”
“Not when it comes to computers,” I said. “Ten seconds. That’s all I need.”
The line went dead, and a moment later, his office door opened. He watched me suspiciously, like this might somehow turn out to be a prank. I swiveled in my chair to face him as he approached, giving him my sweetest smile. The difference in height put me at a very particular vantage point, which I tried not to notice as he stepped up.
But it was hopeless.
I’d spent most of the previous week imagining that thick ridge beneath his gym shorts and what I would have found if things had gone further last Monday. I might never be able to see Damian without thinking of that—the moment when I realized, without an inkling of doubt, that Damian wantedme, Jessa Walton, plus-size aspiring fashionista. A shiver raced up my spine, and I forced myself to refocus on the plot—I mean, task—at hand.
“I’m finalizing details for the Programmer’s Ball,” I said, gesturing toward my computer screen. “And I need to make sure I’m not making a programmer faux pas.”
He narrowed his eyes. “What do you mean?”
“Well, you computer nerds have a world all your own, right? I wanted to do a white and Tiffany blue theme for the decorations”—I pointed out the images of the centerpiece designs I had selected from averyupper crust store—“but I wanted to make sure this shade of blue was okay. Like, maybe this blue means something in hacker world. Like how pink is for breast cancer? Or maybe it’s the same shade as the ‘blue screen of death’ I’ve heard about.” I watched him innocently, hoping he wouldn’t see through my very flimsy façade.
He looked at the screen. “Actually, aqua has a really specific meaning in binary code.”
I blinked. “It does?”
He nodded gravely. “It’s related to the dark web.”