“Shit! I amsosorry. Let me find you some napkins or tissues or…” He looks around helplessly.
“It’s okay,” I assure him, even though the hot java spilled close to my laptop. I quickly set it aside and grab a box of tissues from a drawer.
“That’s not going to be enough,” he observes.
He’s right. “Go into the men’s room and grab some paper towels.”
“On it.”
As Dan dashes away, I clean off the desk as best I can.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Jonathan poke his head out from the doors. “Ms. Young, I need those meeting minutes sooner rather than later.”
“Yes, sir.”
I use my last tissue to wipe the coffee dripping from my fingers, then turn back to my laptop. Quickly, I type in his email address. His pops up first, so I hit send. There. That’s one less thing to worry about.
Just then, Dan jogs back—with toilet paper. “The paper towel dispenser was empty.”
I swallow a groan and accept the wad of papery tissue. “It’s fine. I appreciate you trying.”
Thankfully, he brought me enough to wipe up the last of the hot liquid. Then I look at Tuesday’s schedule.
“Mr. Knight has an opening for 2:30 p.m. tomorrow, if you’d like it.”
“That’s great. Thank you!” Regret crosses his face. “Sorry about the coffee.”
As Dan retreats, I close the calendar and glance at the clock. It’s lunch time and I’m oddly in the mood for pizza, so I put my laptop to sleep before grabbing my purse and leaving my desk.
At the bank of elevators, I press the button to descend when I feel a boulder in the pit of my stomach. Something isn’t right. But what? I mentally sift through the possibilities, but I can’t pinpoint a problem. I didn’t leave any urgent task unfinished.
But the longer I stand there waiting for the elevator, the stronger my anxiety grows. I’m probably borrowing stress, and I need to let it go. Maybe I made a mistake on the meeting minutes? If I did, I’ll send a second email with the corrections. It should be fine.
Giving up on the slow elevator, I dash back to my desk and open my laptop again. The first thing that appears is the meeting minutes.
I frown. “Huh, that’s weird. I already sent you out.”
Maybe it’s a glitch? Whatever. After looking over the document, I send the meeting minutes to Jonathan again, just in case.
But I’m confused. “I could have sworn I already sent those.”
Then the most horrible possibility in the world hits me. Where is my draft of that horribly inappropriate hookup email? I toggle from window to window.
Holy shit, I can’t find it.
A panic so painful I can’t breathe fills my entire body. If I just sent Mr. Knight the meeting minutes…I’m terrified to ask what I sent him earlier.
My stomach lurches. “No, no, no, no.No.”
But I didn’t send Kami—or anyone else—any emails in the last few minutes, just Mr. Knight. And my draft is gone.
I pray my theory about what happened is wrong. If it’s not, I might as well jump from the roof now.
Fingers shaking, I click on my SENTfolder. My gaze zips straight to the top. And I slap a hand over my mouth to hold in my screams of horror. Holy shit!
There, in black-and-white, is the draft of my stupid sexual come-on sent not to Kami Hernandez—but to Jonathan Knight.
Oh, god. I just propositioned my super-hot boss.