“Three martinis and a kiss.” She giggled.
I giggled, too. I couldn’t help it. Marjorie was so silly. Her favorite thing to do at work was regale me with stories of her dating life. I think she assumed I was some lonely, pathetic girl who had no real life of my own, so she thought she’d do me the favor of sharing hers. Truth? I am lonely. Am I pathetic? Ummm . . .
“I suppose that’ll do it,” I said.
“That and these muscles that could make a girl come on cue,” she whispered.
“Please.” I laughed.
Marjorie grinned like a fiend. “Kidding. But why do guys think that’s all it takes?”
I shrugged. “Beats me.”
“Like their biceps are enough,” Marjorie went on.
“Or their words,” I added.
“Seriously. They honestly think saying, ‘Baby, come for me’ is all it takes to push us over the edge?”
“Maybe they think our orgasms are like trained circus animals,” I offered.
Marjorie laughed. “Have they seen what’s going on down there? Is there anything easy about that? Anything that looks like it could be trained?”
“I don’t even know what the hell is going on down there most of the time,” I replied. “And I own one.”
We burst out laughing.
“Well, Rob couldn’t make me come on cue, but he worked it out of me,” Marjorie said. “Took him a while to figure out where my clit was, but he got the hang of it.”
“Did he now?” we heard a gruff voice say above us.
Marjorie shot up from her chair. “Dan! Oh my God! I was just dropping off some paperwork for Bailey.”
“Mmhmm,” he replied, unconvinced. “I apologize for interrupting your stimulating conversation—” (Double entendres sounded really awkward and disgusting coming out of Dan’s mouth.) “—but do you ladies think you could get to work?”
I stared at my computer screen, hands poised above my keypad. I could feel the burn of embarrassment Marjorie was experiencing at this very moment. Our boss heard her say “clit.” The word “clit” passed her lips in front of a man who’s scary, burly, and in complete control of our paychecks. It was excruciating, and there was nothing I could do to erase my humiliation or Marjorie’s. Well, that’s not entirely true.
Bailey, don’t you dare pick up that pen.
But I’m just gonna tap it a few times. To ease the awkwardness. No big deal, I argued.
You don’t need to tap the pen.
I do.
You don’t.
Oh my God. It wasn’t even OCD voice this time. It was my reasonable voice trying to keep me from giving in to my compulsion. And I was arguing with her! What the hell was wrong with me?
“Bailey!”
“Huh?” I whipped my head up and met Dan’s eyes. They weren’t quite glaring, but they portrayed mild annoyance. Well, moderate annoyance.
“Disregard the Akers Pond campaign. Move up Blue Ice.”
“Working on that right now, sir,” I said. I saluted him. Like a total dipshit.
He grunted and walked away. I had no idea where Marjorie went. Back to her desk, I supposed. I didn’t see her leave while I was staring at my computer and arguing with my brain about tapping my pens. I reached across the desk and grabbed my purple one. I tapped it a few times and breathed relief. I tapped it again and felt my world righted. I tapped it a third time and felt thoroughly giddy.
Bailey, you’ve got major problems.
***
All he glimpsed was a flash of red and a swinging ponytail, but it was enough. He thrust his head out of the conference room door and saw her round the corner on the balls of her feet, bouncing like a college cheerleader. He’d never seen someone walk happy. Yes, she walked happy, like she’d just ingested Coke and Pop Rocks.
“Reece!”
He turned around. Christopher stared with brows raised.
“You gettin’ focused?” he asked, drumming his ebony hands on the table. “This meeting starts in five minutes.”
“Who was that?” Reece replied. He plopped back in his seat at the end of the table and ran his hand through his light brown mane.
“Who?”
“Ponytail girl,” Reece said.
“Who?”
“That girl who just walked by, Chris,” Reece said patiently.
“I didn’t see a girl.”
“Red pants! God, she was wearing red pants! How could you not see?”
“Ohhh,” Christopher said. “You mean Bailey? She’s the only one I know around here who wears those red pants. She’s all the time wearin’ those little pants. Different colors. Matching tops. She likes that ‘50s retro thing.”
Reece thought for a moment, and then the words spilled out of his mouth before he could stop them. “Beboppin’ Bailey.”
Christopher snorted. “Man, what did you just say?”
Reece blushed and shrugged. “She was bouncing down the hall.” He paused and glanced at his friend. “Whatever, man. I don’t know.”
Christopher burst out laughing.
“Shut up,” Reece said, chuckling.
“No, I like it,” Christopher said, and then they saw her come bouncing back down the hall. “Hey, Beboppin’ Bailey!”
“You ass,” Reece hissed.
She stopped in the doorway and poked her head inside.
“What’s up?” she asked.
Little cigarette pants. Blouse with cherries sprinkled all over. Round, pearl buttons. Red ribbon in her hair. Where did this chick come from? It was like she fell right out of Buddy Holly’s tour bus.
“And did you just call me Beboppin’ Bailey?” she added, grinning.
Reece fastened his eyes on her mouth—white-washed privacy fence teeth surrounded by glossy pink lips. Dear. God. She was luscious. Like those cherries on her shirt.
“Well, you be bouncin’ down the hall all the time. I thought it fit,” Christopher said.
“I like it,” Bailey replied. “It’s cute.”
What the hell? Reece thought, perturbed. I’m the one who came up with it. Speaking of, she hasn’t even looked at me once. Am I invisible?
“I got some documents I need you to look over before I send them to a customer. They really want ‘em today. Think you can squeeze in some time? I know you’re busy, but . . .” Christopher’s voice trailed off as he pouted.