Page 36 of Debugging Love

“Of course not. He just got under your skin.”

“Yeah.”

“Have you had dinner yet?”

“No.”

Morgan does that motherly thing where she tilts her head to the side and looks at me like I forgot to wash my hands after using the bathroom. “I think you need to eat.”

“He’s seen my weakness, Morgan. He knows he can get to me.”

“Then don’t let him get to you. Don’t let him get under your skin at work tomorrow. Or the next day. Or the next.”

My stomach twists, demanding the Marie Calendar pot pie in the freezer.

I’m PMS-ing. That’s all. I had a moment of hormonal weakness. But it doesn’t have to happen again. I’ll fortify my boundaries. No more flimsy lime green desk divider. That won’t do. I’ll build walls as thick as Fort Knox. He’s not getting a piece of this treasure.

“You’re right. About Chance. And my stomach. I need to eat.”

Morgan leans into the camera and smiles. “You’ll feel better after some chocolate.”

I nod and thank her for listening. We say I love you before I click off my phone. I’ve never had such great friends. Not in high school or college. My sister, Willa, and I are close but she’s still in Indiana.

I rest my head against the couch again and take a moment to appreciate my blessings—my great job, this magical city, a nearby beach, wonderful friends. Chance is like those burrs Willa and I used to pull out of Molly’s coat after she went exploring in the fields behind our house. A temporary nuisance that I can quickly discard as many times as necessary. He won’t affect my amazing life in the slightest.

The rest of the evening is uneventful. I satisfy my stomach’s gnashing teeth with chicken pot pie and a mint Klondike bar, steep some decaf green tea and sweeten it with a pinch of stevia, read for two hours, and then head to an early bed.

Tuesday morning, I wake up at six o’clock. I spend extra time selecting an outfit and applying my makeup, determined to look fierce for...myself. I’m ready in time despite staring into my closet for ten minutes before deciding on a navy power skirt and an off-white silk blouse that tucks in high at my waist.

When I open the door to leave, I seeit. The trash bag, placed there to taunt me. My lips pinch forward.Nope. Not today. Not going to let it bother me.I pick the burr out of my coat, close the door and lock the deadbolt. When I turn around, Chance is pulling his door closed. We meet eyes. His expression is unreadable. I hope mine is too.

Without “good morning” or “how are you” we walk to the stairs in unison like two choreographed dancers. Neither of us yield at the stairs. We descend side by side with a mere foot of space between us. I turn toward my car. He turns toward his.

When I’m safe in the driver’s seat, I tug at my waistband. It’s tight. The skirt is constricting. Too formal. I should go back to my apartment and change.

He’ll see me go back upstairs. He already knows what I’m wearing. Strong women aren’t fickle. They put up with feeling like a stuffed sausage for a day. It’s a small matter.

Traffic is heavy, as usual, but predictable. I arrive at the parking garage at quarter to eight. The walk to JetAero makes me sweat, which makes my waistband feel tighter, and I worry that the perspiration on my back might show through the thin silk.

I don’t think I’ll go for “fierce” tomorrow. Tomorrow will be business casual, or maybe couch casual. What was I thinking wearing this silly outfit?

When I reach the main entrance to Citizen’s Tower, a hand grabs the door before mine. Chance is right behind me. He holds the door and allows me to cross the threshold first.

“Thanks,” I mutter.

I head to the center atrium and take the steps to our office. I don’t hear any steps behind me. Chance must have taken the elevator.

As soon as my foot hits the fourth floor, the elevator dings and out comes Chance a few paces ahead of me. He doesn’t hold the door this time. Luckily, he’s out of sight as I slide into my chair, the lingering smell of his cologne the only indication that he came by here on his way to the breakroom. Maybe he’s warming up a Hot Pocket and plans to enjoy a long breakfast. One can hope.

My computer takes five minutes to boot up, five more minutes to load my apps. Still no sign of Chance. Maybe he warmed uptwoHot Pockets with a side of salmon, the fish lover that he is. If salmon keeps his big feet under a breakroom table instead of my desk, I can put up with the stink. Except all I smell is his cologne. Still. Maybe he uses it to mark his territory. Sorry, Chance. This is my territory. I was here first.

A notification pops up on my Teams app. I click it open and find a welcome message from Morgan.

Enjoy your last thirty seconds of solitude. Chance is headed your way.

Gee, thanks.I peek over the feeble desk divider and watch Chance march out of the breakroom. He’s wearing a maroon T-shirt with relaxed jeans, his hair equally relaxed like he styled it with his fingers, yet it still looks sculpted, a spiky dollop of chocolate meringue on his statuesque frame. His eyes flit to mine. We connect for a moment, and a jolt of unwelcome amperage sends me on an electric slide down my chair. I didn’t like that jolt and I don’t trust it one bit.

I reach under my chair and pull the lever to drop my seat to its lowest setting. When I’m in shorty-pants mode, I can’t see his eyes and he can’t see mine. But I can see his hand as he runs it through his toasty meringue hair that’s burned black as night.

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