Page 38 of The Last Kiss

Lied.

Instead, they are sitting around chatting about the Premier League and every time I happen to give them a glare, they all put their heads down and start working again.

“No women here, mate,” heckles Alan. “Oh sorry, Jules, I’d forgotten you were a girl, what with the trousers you’ve got on. Did you get them from a special uniform outfitter?”

“Fuck off, Al, shame you can’t make your column as funny.”

His smile drops and I smirk.

All of these guys are too long in the tooth. Relics from a previous life when sexist jokes weren’t just politically correct but actively encouraged. Probably part of the hiring process even: Give us your best one liner… there were two blondes and a lightbulb.

Flynn and I are the youngest blood, and I’m nearly thirty for God’s sake.

“So, no Juliette?”

Is Ray taking the piss? It’s only been the six of us for years now.

Oh. Wait. Wasn’t I Juliette on Friday…?

No. It can’t be.

My legs knock under my desk despite me sitting down. Flashes of long fingers and warm skin heating my face.

“Where did it come from?” I ask, getting up, unsteady and trying not to show it.

Ray peers at the label. “Hell, if I know.”

“Not where it actually came from, you bloody idiot. Do you have X-ray vision? I mean who delivered it?”

Was he beautiful with midnight eyes and talking eyebrows?

“Dunno, courier on a bike.”

Before he can resist, I snatch it from his grasp. “I’ll make sure it gets sent back to wherever it came from.” The label really does only say Juliette. No surname.

Ray snatches it back. “No problem. I’ll just bin it.”

I watch in horror as he tosses it in the trash bin under his desk.

“Right. That’s today done, everyone home!” I shut my laptop without closing it down properly—I’ll pay for that tomorrow—and pick up my purple coat off the back of my chair. “Come on, guys, I want to get out of here.”

I’m met with a load of groans and general unwillingness but eventually I herd them all out of the office.

Once we are outside and I’ve waved Flynn off from offering to wait and walk with me to the Tube, I dash back inside.

The dark building is scary as shit at night, but I run straight for Ray’s desk and grab out the small brown-paper wrapped package.

Call me crazy but I’m sure I’m Juliette and I’m sure this package is for me.

A pull in my gut is telling me so.

I slip back out into the January dark, contraband tucked under my arm.

Only when I’m home, kettle shooting smoke signals into the sky do I open it up.

It is for me.

My mystery-one-night-only-no-names-man remembered the one thing I told him about myself. I work for a satirical newspaper on Fleet Street.