The apartment in the Park Slope neighborhood is way more expensive than anything I could afford on my salary. When my parents insisted on making the purchase, I was against it. I wanted to do this on my own, even if it meant living in a shoebox, but then my father made some very important points, mostly about safety. It was definitely the way to get through to me, even though I know that wasn’t his motivation at all—rather, this is him wanting to control his status. He will always view my brother and me as extensions of himself instead of as the individuals we are.
The Wells name is best known for real estate development, with a bit of dabbling in politics. My family has put their stamp across this country since the 1800s, most notably in New York City. My dad’s given me a full brief on all the details of our family history multiple times—it’s one of his favorite topics—but I usually zone out less than five minutes into the conversation.
After letting myself inside, I set down my bag and grab a bottle of water from the kitchen. I gulp it, feeling ridiculously parched. Nothing has been able to quench my thirst today.
Beckham Sullivan in the flesh.
I never thought I’d see him again. I’ve tried to forget about him.
But there he was, and now we’re working together. Surely we can both be adults about this and not dredge up the past. Besides, if anyone has a right to be mad, it’s me. After all, I’m the one who was used and discarded like a dirty napkin.
I set out the to-go boxes, open them all up, and spoon everything I want onto a plate.
Are we that predictable that we order Chinese every week?
Yes, yes we most certainly are. There’s comfort in routine. Sue me.
“Laurel!” I call out when the shower cuts off. “Food’s here!”
“Food!” she shrieks back like some little goblin.
She joins me only a minute later, her hair twisted up, a few scant pieces escaping to frame her face. She’s wearing a muumuu that’s better suited for a granny than someone in their early twenties, but she swears they’re the most comfortable things ever.
She dumps her rice, chicken, and sauce into a bowl, stirring haphazardly. A chunk of rice lands on the floor. She smiles impishly, shrugging. “Oops.”
I clean up the rice, since I can’t stand a mess, and we sit down on the couch with our food and wine.
“Okay, girl. Time to spill.” She shoves a bite of food in her mouth. “Don’t keep me in suspense any longer.” I’m only able to understand that last part because I have years of practice listening to her talk with her mouth full. Much to her mother’s dismay, etiquette classes didn’t have an impact on Laurel.
I decide to get right to the point. “Beckham is a photographer at Real Point.”
Her mouth drops open. At least she’s finished chewing. I’m worried she’s in need of a reboot when she finally composes herself. “You’re lying.”
I trace my pinkie finger around the rim of my wineglass. “I wish I were.”
She stares at me for the length of three heartbeats, then her head falls back, and she laughs.
“Why are you laughing?” I would throw a pillow at her, but I don’t want to risk food or wine ending up on the couch.
“Because this is the most hilarious thing I’ve ever heard. Like, there’s no way. You’re totally pulling my leg.” I blink at her, and her smile falters. “You’re serious? The douchebag who took your virginity and ran is your coworker now?”
I nod. “Yep.”
“Whoa.” She sits stunned into silence. A feat I didn’t know was possible for Laurel. “So, what are you going to do? Knee him in the balls?”
“I don’t think that would win me any points at my new job.” I reach up to brush a stray hair behind my ear, a slight shake in my hands. I hate that after only one encounter, he’s managed to get to me. It’s not like he really even said anything. His presence alone has left me slightly unhinged.
“Ooh. Right.” She ponders, biting her lip. “Laxative in his coffee?”
“Ew.” I wrinkle my nose. “No. Besides, I’m pretty sure that’s illegal.”
“So, if you’re not going to sabotage him, then what are you going to do?”
I stare down at my plate of kung pao chicken. “I guess I’ll deal with it. What other choice do I have?”
She gives me a pitying look, and I gulp. We both know this probably isn’t going to end well for me.
Walking into the office the next day, I try not to think about the fact that I’ll be facing Beckham yet again. At least today his appearance won’t take me by surprise.
My heels clack against the floors as I find my seat. After turning on the computer, I spin in my chair. The woman a few feet down from me at the communal table smiles.
“Hi,” she says warmly, extending a hand. “I’m Claire. We met briefly yesterday, but I wanted to properly introduce myself.”
I take her hand, her palm soft against mine. “Lennon. I’m sorry I was so focused on settling in yesterday that I didn’t get to talk to anyone. How long have you been working here?”
“Almost a year and a half.”
“Do you like it?”
She looks around with an almost-conspiratorial smile. “I love it. It’s a much more collaborative environment than I was used to. Jaci is very open to listening to our ideas and input. She values us, which I appreciate. My last job . . .” She actually shudders, like the memory alone leaves her horror-struck. “Well, let’s just say it was a very different environment.”
My skin prickles on the back of my neck. I rub at it in annoyance.
“And”—another one of the girls across from us pipes in—“sometimes the view is very nice.”
Claire and I both turn to see what she’s looking at.
It’s Beckham.
Of course it is.
He’s oblivious to us, filling up his mug with coffee from the pod maker.
I quickly force my gaze back in front of me, but that does no good, either, because he’s visible in the reflection of my screen.
“He’s looking at you like he wants to eat you,” the woman in front of me hisses. Layla, if I’m remembering her name correctly. It’s a bit of a blur from being introduced to everyone.
Beside me, Claire murmurs, “He totally is.”
In the reflection, I see him take his mug and leave.
“Sulli never looks at us like that,” Layla says.
My brows furrow. “I’m sure you’re mistaken.”
I think of the way he looked at me yesterday, that brief flash of surprise that was quickly replaced with something dark. Not quite hatred, but I felt like I was something gross he wished he could scrape free from the bottom of his shoe. There’s no way he’s looking at me in the way they’re implying.
“Trust me, we’re not.” Claire snorts, wiggling her mouse to bring her screen back to life. “Sulli is . . . nice enough to everyone here, but he does his job and leaves. He doesn’t try to make friends with us, except Brendan, and he certainly doesn’t look at any of us women in a hungry way like he did you.”
“I thought he was gay for a long time,” Layla interjects, opening the wrapper on a breakfast bar. “Then I saw him on a date and realized that wasn’t the case: he just doesn’t like any of us in that way.”
I hate the way I bristle at the idea of him on a date. The last thing that should matter to me is him going out.
“Or,” I say, clearing my throat and trying to shake myself free of the sticky feeling of . . . annoyance? Jealousy? “Maybe he doesn’t want to date a coworker?”
“Then why did he look at you the way he did?” Claire volleys back, arching a brow.
I shrug like this conversation isn’t getting to me in any way. “Maybe he just needs to get laid?”
The girls burst into peals of laughter.
Recovering, Layla takes a bite of her bar. “I doubt he’s hurting for it,” she says around a mouthful. “Who wouldn’t want a piece of that?”
I try to tune them out as they continue to chat about Beckham, instead opening my office email and reading over the list of objectives that Brendan sent.
I get to work researching the topic and scribbling notes before I start a draft.
The prickly sensation on the back of my neck returns a second before Layla hisses, “He’s back.”
Don’t look. Don’t look. Don’t look, I chant to myself.
I fail epically when I peek over my shoulder. He’s stealing a banana from the snack bar, his eyes glued to me with a look that’s a mixture of annoyance and puzzlement.
When my eyes meet his, he quickly lopes back to his office.
“He rarely comes out to the main office,” Claire explains to me in a hushed tone. “He requested his own office because he likes to keep to himself. So this . . .”
“Is unusual,” Layla finishes for her.
And it’s only my second day.
Clearing my throat, I try to regain my focus on the article I’m drafting so I can send it off to Brendan and Jaci for their input.
Stupidly, my thoughts keep drifting back to that infuriating man.
I hate myself for giving him even a moment of thought.
