Page 86 of Is She Really Going Out with Him?
Will: BTW I broke my phone if you were trying to get in touch.
So he wasn’t ignoring me. That’s a relief. I reply with an ambiguous thumbs-up emoji. He doesn’t reply, and when I turn around, I see he’s left his desk. I’m starting to see why workplace relationships might be a bad idea—I’ve never felt more distracted or less productive. Twenty minutes later, finally, he gets back to his desk and I get another message.
Will: This isn’t going to work.
My heart starts to pound before I’ve even finished reading the sentence.
Anna: What’s not going to work?
Will: What happened in the woods. I don’t think it can stay in the woods.
I keep my eyes trained on my screen so he won’t see me smiling.
Anna: ??
Will: I think it’s going to happen again. Upstairs in the archive room in four minutes’ time.
And when I turn around, I see he’s left his desk and is walking off toward the stairs without a backward glance.Oh my. What do I do?
I quickly run through the pros and cons of following Will up the stairs. Cons: I didn’t wear my nice underwear today; this is our workplace, it’s unprofessional; we could get caught, fired; this is not what we agreed at the retreat. Pros: there’s no time to list the pros because I’m already following him up the stairs.
My legs tremble as I climb the narrow stairwell. No one works on the second floor of the building; it’s used for storing archive copies of the magazine going back to the first edition in 1954. My pace quickens. I undo the top button on my blouse and pull my hair out of a ponytail so it falls around my shoulders.
Opening the door to the archive, before I can whisper, “Will?” I feel a hand reach for mine and pull me inside. He closes the door behind me. The main strip lights are off, but there’s a dim desk lamp on in one corner.
“What are we doing?” I ask, full of nervous energy, my whole body alert with anticipation.
“Shh,” he says, raising a finger to his lips. “What happens in the archive stays in the archive.” Then he leans down to kiss my neck and every nerve ending burns with pleasure.
“What happened to not letting things get messy?” I say, trying to sound stern, but my voice comes out a whispered moan.
“I was thinking about that,” he says, his voice slow as he punctuates each word with a kiss down my collarbone while gently unbuttoning the rest of my blouse with one hand. “I think if it’s just this, then it won’t get messy.”
“Just sex?” I ask, reaching for his belt, pulling his work shirt from his trousers, running a hand up his chest. The smell of him,the feel of him against my palm, makes me heady with need. He leans into my ear, and the sensation of his breath on my neck is intoxicating.
“Right,” he says. “No one gets attached, no one gets hurt.” He flicks open the last button on my blouse, then kneels on the floor in front of me, laying both his hands across my bare stomach, hugging my hips as he reaches around to find the zipper on my skirt. “If you think that would work?” he says, and his voice catches now, betraying the effort it’s taking for him to keep talking.
“That could work,” I say, clasping a handful of his hair, biting back a whimper.
“Are you sure? I don’t want to hurt you,” he says, pausing to look up at me, and our eyes lock in the low light. There’s something in his eyes I can’t read.
“Don’t flatter yourself, Havers,” I say, pressing a thumb under his chin and forcing it up. “You’re not my type, remember? And I don’t think you’re boyfriend material.”
“Oh, I remember,” he says, and there’s a flash in his eyes, a smile on his lips. This is all the permission he needs. With two deft tugs he relieves me of my skirt and then my knickers. The smallest groan escapes my lips, and I need to bite down on my fist to keep quiet as his hot mouth makes contact.
Google searches:
Is it illegal to have sex at work or simply frowned upon?
Chapter 28
On my lunch break, Irush to meet Loretta at the Holburne Museum. I suggested we meet for a coffee or a drink, but she proposed art instead. “Much more restorative.” She doesn’t have a mobile phone, so I can’t text her to say I’m running late. As I rush down Great Pulteney Street, I reply to some work e-mails, like a few reels I’ve been sent on Instagram, and repost the latestBath Livingstories.
“Darling, I’m ecstatic that you called,” Loretta says as she sees me hurrying through the main entrance. She is dressed in a bright yellow silk dress, neon orange tights, and a headscarf to match. It’s a bold look, but Loretta pulls it off.
“Me too, I’m so sorry I’m late,” I say.
“Not another word about it,” she says with a wave of her hand. “Look at you, you’re positively glowing. Now, what are you in the mood for? You don’t have long. Paintings? Porcelain? Antique spoons? We can’t do it all. Art is like Marmite, a little goes a long way.”
