Page 45 of Phishing for Love
The look of horror on his face grows. “Leave my office alone.”
I can barely contain my internal grin. “Don’t want me touching your things?”
“I don’t want you meddling.”
“This office is begging to be meddled with. It’s crying out for attention.”
“The only one tempted to cry right now is me,” Aaron grumbles. “Crying to be left alone.”
I nudge his coffee cup closer to him. “You enjoy your coffee now,” I tell him sweetly. “It was not made with love.”
“You’re incredibly annoying.”
“It’s a gift,” I acknowledge as I hop off his desk.
“More like a curse,” I hear him mutter.
As I turn to leave, he raises his mug in a mocking salute. I return the salute, but with my middle finger.
The rest of the morning is filled with Aaron firing texts at me. He wants ice water, another coffee, tea, more ice water. On my fourth trek into his sad excuse of an office, I ask if his excessive thirst is caused by undiagnosed diabetes. He simply gives me his approximation of a smile and instructs me to return to the breakroom to fetch the bottled apple juice he left in the fridge.
I bump into Kenzie on my way down the hall.
“You’re holding up remarkably well,” she says in admiration.
“I’m honoring this bet even if it kills me,” I respond through gritted teeth.
I’m well aware that Aaron is taking full advantage of his win, not sparing me in the slightest. In all fairness, if I’d won the bet, I wouldn’t have spared him either. I would probably be way more ruthless in my demands.
At lunchtime, I see Aaron striding toward my cubicle, no doubt ready to issue more demands.
I quickly grab my phone and pretend I’m on a call. “Uh-huh, yes, I see.” I glance up and fake surprise to see him standing in my cubicle. “On the phone,” I mouth.
He taps his watch, silently asking how long I’ll be.
“A while,” I whisper. “Work call. I’ll come to your office when I’m done.”
And pigs will fly with the fairies, I think.
Aaron nods and turns to leave, but then my stupid phone rings. I’d forgotten to put it on silent.
Aaron smirks. “Looks like you need a little more practice in deception.”
I decline the call from my mom and put my phone down. “We can’t all be experts like you.”
“Well, now that you’re free, lowly minion, I’d like one of Dusti’s famous sandwiches for lunch.”
Dusti’s is a Brown Oaks institution. Everyone in town knows the story of how Dusti, the owner, left town in her twenties to spend five years traveling and working in various parts of the world. In her travels, she observed that nearly every culture and country have their own unique take on the humble sandwich. She started collecting recipes wherever she went and when she finally returned to Brown Oaks, she opened up Dusti’s to serve iconic sandwiches from all over the world.
I’m especially fond of The Arepa, a Venezuelan favorite consisting of roasted plantains, smoky black beans, guacamole, and habanero sauce.
Tourists come from all over to sample Dusti’s global sandwiches and I get why Aaron wants one, but...
“Dusti’s is on the other end of Main Street,” I whine.
“So?”
“That’s a fifteen-minute walk.”
