A screech erupted that put a tired toddler to shame, my voice emerging after a long, breathless moment. If I thought I was sore before, I was in for a rude awakening, my ass throbbing from impact.
A large hand appeared before my face. My eyes traveled up the mile-long arm to the face of Jason Barrett, his jaw tight and eyes cold.
“You should watch where you're going,” he scolded. “You could have hurt someone.”
Embarrassed, I climbed to my feet, rejecting his offer of assistance with a hefty side of lecturing. “I'm sorry. I don't know how I ran into a wall.” I stared at the now-empty cup, wanting to sink into the carpet along with the liquid that spilled from it.
Not only had I ran into the wall, but I had done it in front of him and shrieked like a pterodactyl from the depths of hell. He'd probably send out an all-points bulletin about it and pull the security tapes for added shaming–volume and all.
In the narrow space, he was close enough that his cologne overpowered the scent of the coffee conundrum, and I cursed myself for wanting more. In an alternate universe where he wasn't a prick, I would have asked for the brand, the aroma rousing goosebumps at every whiff.
He cleared his throat, drawing my attention from the cup to his face. While I always heard the term baby blues with his hue, he had a storm behind them, his angsty brows not helping one bit.
His scowl deepened. “No, that was me.”
My heart dropped as I skimmed over his body. Each long leg seemed unharmed, with no noticeable limp or otherwise. His bulky arms weren't bent in pain, shoulders still broad and strong as ever, filling his jacket to capacity.
But as I scanned his chest, there was all the evidence I needed: a splash of coffee and a smudge of lipstick on his lapel.
I prayed he wouldn't notice the rosy round mark while I was standing there and fire me on the spot. As much as I loathed him and Croft, I needed the job. The mountain of bills on my kitchen counter could attest to it. Being a failed Gardenia Bride was astonishingly expensive.
“I'm so sorry! Are you okay? I was going too fast!”
“I can tell,” he muttered, taking a step back as his face contorted in disgust. “I'm fine.”
“Again, I'm sorry. It was an accident.” Obviously, he never learned how to accept an apology, but I wouldn’t address it. He wasn't one to be lectured. He'd eat me alive, and we both knew it.
“Be more careful, Ms. Julian,” He stuffed his hands in his pockets. “You might not be so lucky next time.”
“Yes, sir.”
Dismissive as always, he continued on his way, stepping around at the furthest distance possible to leave me in a daze.
There was a distinct rumble of a utility cart in the distance, and Tammy, the cleaning woman, appeared, her bushy blond hair tucked under a gray bandanna.
“What happened to you, darling? Are you alright?” She hurried over, checking me carefully. Her usual smile was now a frown, arched brows creased in genuine concern — something Barrett hadn't had.
I forced a smile, knowing I had to look terrible. “I'm fine. I had a little mishap. I'll take care of the mess.”
“Don't be silly!” She waved a hand dismissively. “Go clean yourself up. You're looking rough.”
I chuckled at her honesty. “Thank you, Tammy.”
I hurried along towards the women's room, desperate to salvage the evening. I wouldn’t let one literal run-in sour my mood, whether it involved a head-on collision with the most powerful person at Croft Ithaca or not.
As soon as my heels hit the linoleum, I glanced at the mirror and groaned at the swamp creature staring back. My hair hung in limp tendrils, and while most makeup was intact, my lips fell victim to his chest, smearing as if I embarked on a marathon makeout session.
I couldn't help but imagine if he smudged it like that instead, pouring his fury into an earth-shattering kiss.
I dabbed the thought away. The last thing I needed was a workplace rendezvous, especially with him. I'd rather fuck a cactus. Twice.
He would eventually see the lipstick, but I'd be miles away with a drink in hand by the time he did. I'd pay for his dry cleaning and call it even in the morning.
I grimaced after patting to no avail, my blouse far from bar-ready with brown blotches decorating it like a pointillism painting gone askew. I flung it over my head, writing it off as a goner for the night. I'd have to make do with the white camisole beneath, which was relatively coffee-free. It showed more cleavage than I'd prefer, but I had to work with it.
I had yet to accept my new lady lumps, a recent addition after finding ten pounds with my late-night friends Ben and Jerry. I found a couple more with their friends, pizza and wine, too.
I shot off an apology text to Lee, knowing I would be hella late, but she'd forgive me after hearing about the Barrett incident. And by forgive, I meant tease me mercilessly until the day I died.
By the time I hit the parking lot, it was empty, and the ride to Crow Bar consisted of power ballads. Sometimes shit days called for car concerts at unhealthy volumes, regardless of one's singing abilities.
The lot at Crow Bar was almost full, and I prayed Lee grabbed seats. I wasn't looking forward to standing in heels if she hadn't.
After circling endlessly, I slipped into a spot beside a Range Rover, holding my breath as I eased in. The dang thing cost more than I made in a year, and who knew what insurance would charge if I clipped it? Probably more than my measly coverage offered.
I rushed across the lot, weaving between cars and dodging truck mirrors with the finesse of a lot lizard. A rock caught my heel as I stepped toward the entrance, but I caught
