Page 7 of Married As Puck
She made fucking stroganoff, and I can’t resist.
I eat the entire thing in peace. She’s not here to watch me this time.
4
I stare at the plate of pancakes that my asshole roommate left. I don’t have time for this, so I throw them in a Ziploc bag and put them in the freezer and clean up the kitchen a little. Then I start cooking lunch. It’s pretty fast on the stove and I’m grateful.
When I look in my phone screen, it’s 8:37AM. I start work at nine. My office is at least half an hour away. If the traffic gods are merciful, I might make it there fifteen minutes past the time.
I grab my laptop on the table and make a dash to my room to freshen up. “Ouch! What the actual hell?” I curse under my breath as I trip over a duffel bag in the middle of the hallway.
I rub my throbbing shin and pray it doesn’t bruise.
I stand upright and as I try to move, the pain shoots up my leg. “Damn…” I trail off, suddenly realizing that I don’t even know his name. The pain is still there, and I have my mom’s voice in my head that I’m such a weakling.
As I walk into my room, I trip over the boots from yesterday that I didn’t put away, smack my other knee into the dresser, shout something very unladylike, and for about four seconds consider just not going to this job today and going off to reside in the woods because Mrs. Randolph already hates me. She doesn’t just dislike me, she hates me.
My first day working with her is still vivid in my head. She asked me to serve her coffee as some weird sort of test for my competence. I had to remind her that I was there for the event coordinator role and not for the secretary or personal assistant. She glared at me like I was a stain she couldn’t scrub out of her rug, and I swear every time she’s called my name since, she’s tested new ways to kill me with only her eyes. If I give her a reason now by showing up late to the biggest meeting of the week. Oh, she’d feast on my bones.
Shower? No time. I rip off my pajama shirt and toss it to the corner. It’s only been a day here, but my laundry pile is already like a mountain range of shame.
I dig through my suitcase and come up with a blouse that used to be white but now was eggshell? Gray? I don’t care. I shake it like that will magically iron it. It doesn’t but on it goes. I pair it with a pencil skirt that makes my waist look slimmer and makes me feel good about my body.
Half of the clothes in that closet are from my college days and that’s because I’ve been saving up for more important things so I can’t afford to go on a shopping spree even though that’s long overdue.
I stare at my reflection in the mirror. It doesn’t scream, “give me raise,” or “put some respect on my name” but at least it looks like I have my life put together.
Then, I fuss with my hair and finally get it into a neat crown braid with few tendrils framing my face.
I throw one shoe on, the other dangling half-off as I bolt out of my room. Coffee is non-negotiable so that I don’t reflect Mrs. Randolph’s bad attitude. As I get into the kitchen, my steps falter as I see my flat mate already there. He’s covered in sweat and scarfing down the food I left for him.
“You’re here?” he says like he’s annoyed.
“I am leaving right now.”
His eyes travel down my body. “But you’ll be back?”
I smile. “Aw, are you going to miss me?”
He laughs as my eyes travel down his body, looking at his sweaty shirt.
His eyes narrow into slits. “Since we’ll be living together, I should probably know your name.”
“You have six days, Cameron Gray.”
He clicks his tongue. “Ah, you do know who I am.”
I side-eye him, grabbing my lunch for the day. “You have mail laying around. I don’t know anything about you besides you have six days left.”
He shakes his head. “Well, mail snooper. You know my name and can connect the dots from there.” The way he’s talking is like he’s a big shot whose presence I’m oblivious to. I make a mental note to check him up later.
“Well, I’m Brie Sparks.” He raises a finger before I can fully complete my introduction. I find myself staring at his lips, waiting for his next words. “I’m sure none of your boyfriendshas been honest with you, but Ms. Sparks, you’re too loud in the mornings. You need to be more considerate.”
There’s a retort on my tongue but I bite it back for the sake of peace. Even though I’m running late, I plaster on a smile and ask, “Do you appreciate that I’m cooking for you? Or will glaring at me fill you up and help you not be so angry?”
His expression hardens but he doesn’t say a word in response.
A silly little smile tugs at my lips. His attitude is a big red flag. “What do I care?” I mutter kindly. I grab my bag, coffee in hand and face him fully. He’s typing on his phone, his brows knit in concentration.
