Page 48 of Friendshipped
“Who?” Trevor asks.
“The enraged driver with my soup all over her black Lexus.” I say.
I’m feeling slightly dizzy, but not in an awful way.
Trevor looks out his side window.
“Coast is clear.”
He’s still chuckling.
I snap my head up and meet the glove box on my ascent. Stellar. What a way to start the workday.
We arrive at work without any further incident. I grab my cup of coffee in the break room. Everyone’s buzzing about someone new starting today. I have a deadline, so I don’t wait around to hear the details. I’ll know soon enough.
I’m dead set on finishing my article so I can start writing the sample piece I want to show Jeanette. I’ve decided to pitch my Oh-So-Ohio column to her one article at a time.
The idea focuses on going to different hot spots, attractions, historical sites and events around the state and then to doing write ups about the places and the experiences. It could stimulate state pride and tourism. Trevor says it’s a great idea. Jeanette shoots it down at every turn.
As I’m typing away, an eerie stillness overtakes our entire office. I wheel my chair over so I can catch a glimpse of whatever inspired my usually chatty group of coworkers to hit the mute button.
My eyes travel down past all the cubicles to take in the cause of the pause.
Am I dreaming?
If I could have ordered the perfect guy straight from wherever you put in those kinds of orders, I’m looking at that man. He’s here, standing at the end of the rows of cubicles like some Greek god come to life. He’s a man like none I’ve ever laid eyes on. As a matter of fact, I don’t think I’ve ever seen an actual man before this.
Every other male I know seems prepubescent and irrelevant compared to the image of perfection currently sucking the oxygen out of our workplace. Okay, not every male. Trevor outshines this man, but we all know where I stand with him. So, let’s say, of all eligible men I’ve seen who aren’t Trevor, this guy ranks miles, leagues and acres ahead of them.
This new arrival to the Tribune has ruffled blond hair. A few roguish curls fall across his forehead. The way he fills out his white button up shirt makes him look like he’s the centerfold for some sort of trendy office wear catalog. His chin has the perfect dimple, and when he smiles, I know I hear a chorus of sighs echo through the room, or maybe that was just me.
His rolled-up sleeves reveal the most perfectly tan, corded forearms I’ve ever seen. Who knew I was a forearm girl? I’m now the self-appointed president of the forearm appreciation society. I might be hyperventilating.
Do men like this even live in Ohio? Where has he been hiding? And who am I kidding? Guys likethatdon’t date girls likeme. That thought feels like an oversized pin to my fantasy balloon. I glimpse around to see if anyone near me can hear the hiss of my dreams deflating.
Trevor. I catch his wide eyes across the aisle. He knows me too well and saw it all. His gaze follows mine as I quietly utter “Who isthat?” He shrugs and points to a spot under his lip and makes a little wiping motion indicating that, yes, I drooled when I had my first Adonis-in-person sighting and actually dribbled some of my green drink onto my chin as a stellar first impression.
I duck my head back into the safety of my three grey padded partition walls and resume working on a tribute to the passing of a soybean farmer in Piqua.
Later that day, I find out this mirage of a man wasn’t merely a figment of my overactive imagination. His name is Chase. Of course, it is. Chase Jamison, because beautiful men have equally sexy names. It’s a rule somewhere. He couldn’t be named Harold, Bert or Eugene. (Sorry to all guys with those names). No. He’s Chase, as in,chase me, women, you know you want this.
And he’s our new senior editor. He transferred in from Cincinnati, where I don’t know what’s in the water, but they ought to bottle it and mass produce it if men like him are the byproduct. I went to Miami U and I never saw men like him. It must be the post-graduate group of men who end up looking like the love child of Chris Hemsworth and Justin Hartley.
The car ride home with Trevor is uncharacteristically quiet.
Finally, he says, “So, Chase Jamison?”
I half grunt as an answer. That’s vague enough.
“Is he your type?”
“Pretty sure he’s everyone’s type.”
Trevor nods and keeps driving in silence.
“Does it bug you working with someone like him?” I finally ask.
“By someone like him, what do you mean, Lex? I only barely met the guy.”
