Page 33 of Phishing for Love
“I look forward to seeing what everyone comes up with.” Calvin turns and speed walks out the conference room. It’s like watching a hobbit attempt the 100-meter dash. My eyes are forever scarred.
Farah rises from her chair. “Let’s get to work, people.”
For the past two hours, all I’ve done is stare at a blank page on my screen. I’ve typed up sentences but deleted them almost immediately. Nothing sounds right. The words aren’t flowing. It’s like there’s a creative blockage in my brain.
When I write a card, I typically visualize who I’m writing the card to. Today, however, whenever I try to picture someone, only one face pops into my head. Aaron’s mocking eyes, stubborn jawline, and cocky grin give rise to words I can’t use in a greeting card. Not unless I want the good folk of Brown Oaks to descend upon me in a storm of moral outrage.
I take a big gulp of my coffee. The other stopper on my creativity is Mark. He’s in a cubicle one over from me and crunching what sounds like a carrot or celery stick. Or a human bone. The noise is driving me insane, and I can’t concentrate.
Abandoning my coffee, I grab a notebook and pen and push to my feet. “I’m in the Creative Room,” I tell Kenzie.
She gives me a sympathetic nod. As an artist, she understands creative frustration and has spent more than her fair share of hours in the room trying to find inspiration.
The Creative Room is Calvin’s brainchild. Taking his cue from the big tech companies, Calvin wanted a relaxed and offbeat environment specifically designed to help employeesfree their imaginations to come up with innovative ideas and solutions, with the ultimate goal of making him more money.
Because Calvin didn’t want a collaborative or team-building space, there are no ping pong or foosball tables. It’s more of a personal creative thinking space, so there are yoga mats and exercise balls. A treadmill. In one corner, an adult coloring table; in another, a Lego table. Colorful beanbags and stuffed chairs are scattered all over.
I adore coming here. It’s a break from my tiny cubicle, and I’ve come up with some great lines in this room. Thankfully, it’s currently empty. I walk past the doodle wall where Calvin’s hung a giant whiteboard, kick off my shoes, and drape myself facedown over the exercise ball, my notebook on the mat in front of me.
I don’t know how much time passes as I rock back and forth on the ball, my eyes closed. Frustration swells inside me. The words for the Christmas card are still stuck somewhere in my slow-as-molasses brain, which is no doubt tired of regurgitating the same sentiments in different ways.
I hear the door open and someone step into the room. I continue my gentle rocking motion. I’m not worried about being disturbed. Everyone at Amell Greetings is aware of the unwritten rule that you don’t strike up a conversation in the Creative Room. And you don’t interrupt someone’s unique creative process, whether it’s hanging upside down from a chair, lying flat on the floor, or typing away furiously on a phone on the treadmill. The creative process is sacred and not to be questioned.
“What on earth are you doing?”
I freeze.
Of all the people in the building to walk in while I’m splayed on an exercise ball, my denim-clad butt in the air, it has to behim. The one person ignorant of the unwritten rule. The one person I don’t want to see me like this.
I swallow a moan, wishing that someone somewhere would push that red button and end it all now.
I keep my head down, hoping he’ll dig up his polite gene and simply turn around and walk back out again, but Aaron, it appears, is not in a digging mood. I can still sense his silent, unfortunate presence.
“What is this place?”
I know from his voice that he’s gazing at the color-drenched space and his monochromatic soul is recoiling in horror. All the green in here will especially get to him. (Calvin read somewhere that green has a positive effect on stress, so he went all out.)
You know what doesn’t have a positive effect on my stress?
Aaron.
My blood pressure is rising by the second.
“You need to leave,” I say without lifting my head.
“I’m not going anywhere.” Amusement laces his tone.
I raise my head, and my eyes find his in the floor-to-ceiling mirror directly in front of me.
I can tell from his expression he’s enjoying this scenario way too much.
I make no move to get to my feet. Partly because I have no dignified way to maneuver myself off the ball into an upright position. All the laws of gravity and grace are against me. I remain sprawled on the exercise ball in an exquisitely vulnerable pose, still holding Aaron’s gaze in the mirror.
Except, something in his face changes. He’s now looking at me with the oddest expression. Almost as if he wants to kiss me. Or strangle me. I’m having trouble telling the difference.
The moment stretches out as we continue to stare at one another, neither of us making any move to break eye contact.
Then his gaze drops to my mouth before traveling back up to my eyes.
