Page 1 of Not Safe for Work
Chapter One
On a scale of one to ten, how would you rate me?”
My attention snaps to Brian with a blink. He stands with an elbow propped on the wall of my fuzzy grey cubicle, wearing an expectant look.
“What?” I ask, not entirely listening, most of my divided attention reserved for the conversation that is currently distracting me.
“Between one and ten—what do you think?” He sweeps his hands down the length of his body like he’s the prize girl in a sequined dress on a game show.
Why is he asking me this? Brian is a sweet guy, but I’ve never seen him that way.
Even if I did, I maintain an ironclad policy against dating any of the humpbacked trolls who stagger WMC Purcell’s halls. Once upon a time, I vowed never to dip into the regressive shallows of a workplace gene pool ever again.
An atomic cloud of male laughter bursts from the office situated kitty-corner to mine. I roll my shoulders, trying to ignore it and focus on Brian. He’s white, in his early thirties, and wearing a blue polo and dark, baggy jeans.
My thoughts catch up to the present. Brian was telling me about his date last night, and I missed the part about how it went because I was too focused on what was happening across the hall.
“I’d say you’re a ten,” he says in earnest, and I cover my mouth as something resembling a laugh-snort muffles my embarrassment. I can always count on Brian for the gentle pets my ego laps up like a newborn kitten. “I’d say I’m a seven. I have a good job, make a mean lasagna, and I know how to treat a woman.”
As he’s talking, my attention wanders back to Rafe Gallagher’s office and the brief snippets of conversation floating across the hall.
“Trishara?”
Again, I look over. With his hands stuffed in his pockets, Brian is staring down at me with his brows furrowed in expectation. I shift as the rough fabric of my desk chair scratches the backs of my thighs.
He just referred to himself as a seven. I probably should respond to that.
“Don’t sell yourself short, Brian. You’re a great catch.”
He flashes me a smile. “I think we’ll probably go out again. She said I should call her.”
“That’s great,” I say, meaning it. “Then you should.”
Brian’s primary goal in life is to settle down with a sweet wife and have lots of kids who play team sports and grow up to find stable jobs and provide a gaggle of grandchildren. And if that’s what the future Mrs. Paterson also wants, then all the power to them. It sounds nice.
“You think it’s okay? I shouldn’t wait three days?”
As more laughter floats from Rafe’s office, I offer Brian an absent wave. His gaze remains fixed on me as though I hold every answer to the mysterious ways of women in the palm of my hand.
“If a woman likes you, she wants you to call. Don’t fall for that ‘rules’ garbage.”
He considers my words, his expression skeptical.
“Would I lie to you? Trust me. If she likes you, she wants you to call.”
His shoulders release, tension dipping out of his frame.
“Thanks, Tris. You’re the best.”
He scratches the tip of his nose, his gaze turning distant. I’m sure he’s already mentally rehearsing what he’s planning to say to his potential future bride.
“Have you been out with anyone lately?” he asks a moment later, and my somewhat average mood tumbles down a hillside.
Lately, the only out I’ve been is to the Chinese takeout place at the end of my block. Out is then promptly followed by a wardrobe change—flannel adjacent—and a USB-powered date with my Lelo Sona 2.
“Not really,” I say, my smile bland, hoping Brian takes the hint I’m spelling out with flashing red strobe lights. I make a show of checking my smartwatch. “Oh, looks like it’s almost time for the big announcement.”
Brian pushes away from the narrow opening of my cubicle. “Who do you think the lucky two will be?” He rubs his hands together as if this is a mystery worthy of Professor Plum.
