Page 23 of Love is an Open Book
It’s true, for her. All of her ex-boyfriends have disappeared from her life, or she from theirs. But I went to my first girlfriend’s wedding last year. And I’ve stayed in touch with my college girlfriend, the one I broke up with a few months before I met Mia. She’s a doctor now, out in Maryland. I dated one of the bartenders I met at trivia night for a few months, and we chat whenever we run into each other. We’re not the best of friends, but we’re not strangers, either.
Mia speaks again, cutting short my thoughts. “Friendships last. But relationships...” She pauses. Maybe the alcohol has loosened her tongue, too, or maybe this fake date is changing how we see each other, after all. “With relationships, who knows? Could be the best thing that ever happened to you or your biggest regret.” She meets my gaze, dark eyes serious, likeshe needs me to understand. “When it comes to you, that’s not a risk I’m willing to take.”
I get it. Love isn’t a sure thing. We’ve both seen it crumble and break. But the one thing I am sure of is Mia. If she wants to stick with the routine but pretend things have changed, then I’ll enter that fantasy with her.
Eight
Gavin
Mia was onto something with this trope test. I underestimated how different it would feel to sit next to her knowing we’re supposed to be acting like characters in an office romance.
She cleared off the end of her desk for me to set up my laptop. Afternoon light is streaking through the windows, illuminating floor-to-ceiling shelves accessible by a library ladder I installed for her last year. The corkboard on the wall across from her desk is tacked with slips of paper and photos and sticky notes.
I went straight to bed after our non-date last night and awoke to a text from Joe that was just three question marks. I put him off by reminding him we’ll have time to talk at the game this weekend. Might’ve made it harder on myself since my brother will be there, too, but at least I gave myself time to think of a good explanation. But it was an important reminder of why we need to keep this a secret. I can only hope he hasn’t already told Sera I’m seeing someone.
Ironically, even though the surroundings are familiar, I am seeing Mia in a new light. Or rather, I’m allowing myself to think of her in the way I’ve always suppressed, because I’msupposed to be acting like her lovesick colleague. That must be why I’m captivated by the furrow in her brow as she types, the way she nibbles her thumbnail before returning to the keyboard.
But she doesn’t seem affected. No furtive glances or evidence of the temptation to cross the best-friend line that she mentioned last night. Driven by an urge to see if this made-up scenario is getting to her, I ask, “Is this working?”
She pulls her attention from the monitor, eyes unfocused behind her glasses, like her mind was elsewhere, and I feel bad for speaking up. “Is what working?”
“This?” I twirl an orange pen in the air, the one I nabbed from the jar to doodle with. “Are you getting—” I shift, trying to get comfortable in the space-age chair she insisted I sit in “—inspired?”
“It’s been five minutes.”
“Is that all?”
She leans across the desk and taps an oversize hourglass I hadn’t noticed. “Yep.”
“Wait, where have you been hiding that?” I make grabby hands.
She snatches it out of reach. “It’s not a toy, it’s a tool.” I can’t hold back a smirk, and she rolls her eyes, knowing me too well. “That’s what she said. Yeah, yeah.”
“You walked right into it.”
“I’m a romance author. Innuendo is part of the job. What’s your excuse?”
“My best friend is a romance author?”
She grins. “Fair enough. But stop distracting me.”
“Shutting up now.” But it’s so quiet that I swear I can hear the sand shifting through the hourglass.
I’m more sure than ever that Mia picked workplace romance because it’s the easiest way to claim she’s doing something outside the box while sticking to her usual routine.
One thing is for sure: Even though I’m on edge about how to act, this does feel less risky than last night when there was that flicker of curiosity in her eyes. Like if we tested the only-one-bed trope, no one would sleep on the floor. I can imagine waking up next to her, gorgeously disheveled in the only open room of a fully booked hotel. Seeing an awareness dawn in her eyes, then a rush of desire as she nestled closer and...
Yeah, something’s got to give. Normally I do my best not to pester Mia when she’s writing. But she didn’t invite me here to behave like I typically would. The vibe in here is all work and no play, and based on everything we discussed last night, it’s my mission to change that. I resettle myself, trying to find a position that isn’t pure agony since this is the most uncomfortable piece of furniture I’ve ever sat on, and I’m struck with an idea.
Biting back a childish grin, I email her a formal complaint about the chair, then open my design software and get to work, laying out a plan for a job I recently contracted, two acres surrounding a renovated mid-century home. I’m dying to revive the pear grove on one corner of the property and tone down the maximalist landscaping at the front of the house.
After working for almost an hour, I check my email. Ha. Mia replied to my complaint. I glance over at her, but she’s typing away, curls brushed back into a bun that gives her a no-nonsense appearance. Paired with her striped button-down, she’s going for an all-business approach. Now I feel kinda bad for sending the prank email.
RE: Can’t work in these conditions
Greetings Mr. Lane,
The team has reviewed your complaint, and while we take all concerns seriously, we take issue with you singling out Mia Brady as “the evil mastermind” behind your discomfort. Not only is Mia our most dedicatedemployee, you’ve been assigned her preferred form of seating. It is not, as you so erroneously stated, an “alien captain’s chair.”
