Page 10 of The Revenge Game
Or maybe he’s just trying to avoid being drawn into Cheryl and Dave’s conversation, which is now descending into a heated debate about the Duckworth-Lewis system.
The guy reaches for a mug emblazed with the wordsI drink coffee for your protection.
Okay, he must be new because no one who’s worked here for more than three days would ever make that potentially fatal error.
“Unless you’re feeling particularly brave this morning, I wouldn’t use that one,” I say as I approach.
He spins to face me, his eyes widening.
“Oh?” His voice comes out slightly higher than expected, like he’s trying to sound casual but missing by several octaves. “Is it radioactive or something?”
He’s American. From a midwestern or southern state, judging by his accent.
And he’s cute. Like, really cute.
His dark hair is neatly styled, and his eyes are a deep, velvety brown that remind me of the single-malt whiskey Roger breaks out when we land a big account.
He’s got that sexy-nerd vibe going that makes me think of Clark Kent right before he ducks into a phone booth.
His question hangs in the air for a few beats too long. I need to get myself under control. I’m a salesperson. I can be smooth when I want to.
I swallow hard to get some moisture back into my mouth so I can answer his question.
“That mug is worse than being radioactive. It belongs to Marleen from Accounting. Rumor has it that the last person who drank from Marleen’s mug had to attend mandatory training sessions about proper mug etiquette every Friday afternoon for a month. Complete with PowerPoint presentations and pop quizzes.”
He doesn’t laugh at my words like I expect.
“Well, I wouldn’t want to start off on the bad side of Marleen from Accounting,” he says, sliding the mug back onto the shelf.
He reaches for another mug that statesI survived another meeting that should have been an email.
“Um…yeah. You shouldn’t use that one either.”
“What’s wrong with this mug?”
“It’s the one Greg from Marketing uses, and he never washes it properly. There’s concern those brown stains might be forming their own civilization.”
His eyebrows draw together. “Is there actually a safe mug to use?”
I point. “The shelf there has all the spare mugs.”
He tentatively reaches for a mug that hasOf course I talk to myself. Sometimes I need expert adviceprinted on it.
“Is this one safe?” he asks.
“Perfect choice,” I say.
He turns away to examine our ancient coffee maker.
I hover awkwardly as he adjusts the settings. I’m prepared to be his knight in shining armor, but he effortlessly manages the complicated sequence of buttons and levers and produces what actually looks like drinkable coffee. Which is a miracle up there with turning water into wine.
I realize I’m still lurking like some sort of self-appointed mug guardian. Probably time to upgrade myself from “weird guy who prevents coffee-related faux pas” to “actual colleague with a name.”
“Sorry, among the mug politics, I didn’t introduce myself. I’m Justin. I’m in the sales department.” I offer my hand.
He stares at my hand for a few heartbeats, long enough for me to become self-conscious. Is there something wrong with my hand? Did Pete’s lucky pen explode on me again? I flick a glance down to make sure my hand is clean.
It is.
