Closing out of my messenger window, I pull up our payroll software and work my way through a handful of tasks my boss sent yesterday while I was out. When I’m finished, it’s a quarter ‘til noon.
Grabbing my work badge, I head to the cafeteria to get a quick bite to take back to my desk so I can eat in peace. Lunchtime at Westcott reminds me of high school some days. It’s clique-y and impersonal and every once in a while, some random person I’ve never seen before sits down across from me and starts showing me pictures of their cats on their phone.
I’m not in the mood for small talk today—I spent twelve hours engaging in it yesterday.
I respond to a handful of group texts from some friends, inhale my salad in my office, toss the cardboard container in the recycling bin, and log back into the system only to be met with a messenger alert.
TREY WESTCOTT: What are you doing tonight?
SOPHIE BRISTOL: Busy. Why?
TREY WESTCOTT: Prove it.
SOPHIE BRISTOL: 555-836-8826
SOPHIE BRISTOL: I’m going to my mom’s for dinner. Feel free to call her to verify that.
SOPHIE BRISTOL: Actually, don’t. She’ll think it’s some kind of phone scam and then she’ll probably call the police. That or I’ll have to explain why you’re calling her and I really don’t want to do that.
TREY WESTCOTT: Are you going to tell her about my offer?
SOPHIE BRISTOL: Absolutely not.
TREY WESTCOTT: ???
SOPHIE BRISTOL: Why would I do that?
TREY WESTCOTT: So she could talk some reason into you and tell you what a horrible mistake you’re making.
SOPHIE BRISTOL: You don’t know her. She’d probably give me a gold medal for saying no. I’m one hundred percent positive she would be against your proposal.
TREY WESTCOTT: Give me an hour of her time and I promise I can change her mind.
SOPHIE BRISTOL: Your confidence is impressive, but you have no idea what you’re up against. If you think I’m a hard sell, wait until you meet her.
TREY WESTCOTT: So you’re saying I can meet your mother?
SOPHIE BRISTOL: I didn’t mean it like that … it’s a figure of speech.
My cheeks ache, and it takes me a second to realize I’m grinning.
Weird.
And more importantly, why?!
I wipe the ridiculous smile off my face and check my email in an attempt to distract myself with actual work. Despite seeing him in a new light yesterday, my answer is still no. Friendly conversation isn’t going to persuade me otherwise.
TREY WESTCOTT: Fine.
TREY WESTCOTT: What are you doing tomorrow night?
SOPHIE BRISTOL: Meeting some Basics at Starbucks for our weekly meeting.
TREY WESTCOTT: Liar.
SOPHIE BRISTOL: ;-)
It doesn’t matter how much my brain screams at me to disengage with this man, my fingers type lightning-fast responses before I have a chance to talk myself out of them.
TREY WESTCOTT: Come over. We can hang out. As friends.
The offer is tempting. I secretly enjoyed last night. That and his place is amazing and I haven’t seen a fraction of it. Not to mention, I’m only human and his attention is gratifying …
I’d be lying if I said I wasn’t having a little bit of fun with all of this. I imagine myself old and gray, playing bridge in some Floridian retirement village and telling my friends about that time in my twenties when I was relentlessly pursued by a trillionaire.
SOPHIE BRISTOL: What time?
I bury my face in my hands, shaking my head because I know better.
Last week one of my friends told me I was in a slump. She insisted I remedy that with a weekend of casual sex with her hot neighbor who keeps asking for my number. But I don’t know … this sounds more appealing in its own weird way.
Not saying I’m going to hook up with Trey. But sometimes the fantasy of hooking up with someone is the best part of getting to know them. I have no shame in dirty little daydreams …
TREY WESTCOTT: I’ll send someone to pick you up at seven.
For the remainder of the afternoon, concentration evades me and getting into my work flow is impossible.
It’s the strangest thing, but I can’t get Westcott out of my head.
His honesty is refreshing.
His tenacity, flattering.
As long as we don’t detour off the friend track, nothing should go wrong.
Twenty-Two
Sophie
Past
I slip my shoes on and tie my server apron around my waist Friday night. I’m seconds from bolting out the door when my mom stops me.
“Where do you think you’re going?” she asks.
I turn. “Work …”
“That’s funny. I ran into your manager at the pharmacy earlier today and she told me you quit your job months ago.” Her gaze falls to my apron. “So then I called Stacia’s parents. They said they can’t remember the last time you stayed the night, so where have you been running off to every weekend?”
My heart ricochets and warmth crawls up my neck.