Page 5 of The IT Guy
I’m standing by the elevators, umbrella in my left hand, phone in my right, impatiently waiting for Molly. My coworkers pass me in both directions, their wet shoes squeaking, and their voices droning on with mindless chatter and week-old office gossip.
Lucky for me, Molly keeps me up-to-date on all the latest rumors and scandals. Lucky for her, this inside info makes up for the fact that she is perpetually late.
I glance again at my phone screen, willing a message to appear. It doesn’t. Ok, it’s 12:09. If she’s not here in five minutes, I’m grabbing a Snickers from the break room and treating myself to a few chapters of the deliciously scandalous Highlander romance I’ve been reading.
The rabbit hole that is Facebook sucks me in, and I do my daily duty of birthday wishes and then scroll through kitten memes and political posts, taking care to avoid accepting the five LulaRoe parties I’ve been invited to.
My social media successfully updated, I glance at the time on my screen: 12:23. Ok, Molly is officially and ridiculously late. I shoot off yet another text and make the turn back toward my office. Snickers and a hot Scottish hero for lunch, it is.
I toss my umbrella in the drawer and reach for the change purse I keep on my desk for such emergencies. One last desperate glance at my phone confirms that my bestie has ghosted me, so I head out the door on a mission, ignoring the four texts from my mother.
Said mission is halted as I slam into a brick wall of male chest. And not just any random male chest. Nope.
“Sweet Mother of Jesus, Simon!” I scold. “You can’t just sneak up on people like that.”
As usual, Simon stares down at me with a smile. It’s been such a busy week that I haven’t seen much of him since he gave me a ride to work on Wednesday. His curls bob slightly as he pushes his black glasses back up to perch on the bridge of his nose. Perhaps I should forget the Snickers and just let my eyes feast on him for a bit. And what a feast it is. He’s tall, much taller than my 5’ 7”. He’s lean and long, built like a runner, though I’ve never actually seen him run. He’s much more likely to be found at a computer, his sleeves rolled up, his tie slightly askew, his green eyes warm and rich behind his glasses, focused on whatever task is set before him. I’m telling you, a gal might wonder what it would be like to have all that concentration centered on her for an hour or 24. And I know that Hot IT guy is a bit of a cliche, but I’m damn glad my office has Simon to fill that role, even if he is completely off-limits. I remind myself for what seems like the thousandth time that he is too young for me.
“I wasn’t sneaking. I was walking. You were the one with your head down, running out of your office like it was on fire.”
“I’m making a Snickers run. Lunch of champions and all that. I still maintain that we should make you wear a bell and collar,” I tease.
“That will never happen. Besides, your office should be empty. It’s Friday afternoon.”
“You stalking me, Walker?”
At that, Simon rolls his eyes. “Everyone in the building knows that you and Molly eat lunch at The Tavern on Fridays. I thought now would be a good time to come down and load the software update you requested.”
“Oh, yea, thanks. Molly stood me up, so I’m off to the break room to drown my sorrows in chocolate, peanuts, and nougat. Do you need my password?”
“Nah, I have the all-powerful admin access.“ He smiles at me, and god, it’s disarming. He’s adorable. And that dimple kills me. Too bad he’s, what, twenty-five?
“Okay… You want anything?” Holy hell, he’s still smiling. And I must be delirious from hunger, because I swear he’s checking out my boobs right now. His gaze travels down to my hips, and I have a hot flash. Is it possible for menopause to set in at my age?
“I’m good, thanks.” He turns his focus to my computer, his fingers flying across the keyboard, his head bent slightly in concentration.
Ok, he’s clearly in the zone, so I’m going to take a minute to enjoy the view. If he can stare, so can I. And let’s be real. He was probably staring because I likely spilled something on the front of my shirt. The boob-shelf struggle is real. I’m a pragmatic gal, thanks to my mother’s persistent influence. At average height and a little higher-than-average weight with brown eyes and hair to match, I’m fully aware that I’m not the stuff fantasies are made of. Not like Wonderboy over here. Sure, he’s damn near jailbait, but that’s an easy detail to forget as I watch his long, thick fingers slide across the keys. His forearms look delicious with those sleeves rolled up. As I’ve said before, I’ve got a thing for arms—specifically his arms. His tie is haphazardly knotted, and his cords are slightly wrinkled as though he scooped them up off the floor this morning. Clearly, I’ve been reading way too many romance novels lately because I’m now envisioning those cords onmybedroom floor…
“Ahem, Elaine...Hello, lunch date?”
I turn to see Molly standing in my doorway, looking lovely, if slightly disheveled. She’s all statuesque and blonde. “Ha! You should talk. You’re a half hour late.”
“Yes, well, I was held up in accounting.”
Her cheeks are flushed. Her hair is tousled. Her scarf is askew. “Yeah, I’ll just bet you were held up…” I smirk, as I grab my belongings, once again, abandoning my change purse in favor of my bag and umbrella.
Molly blushes red, and Simon stares at my computer screen as though it holds the key to ridding the world of computer viruses for all eternity.
We walk out of the office as I call back over my shoulder, “Later, Wonderboy!”
WONDERBOY. CHRIST, I HATEthat nickname. It’s like she’s highlighting the 567 reasons a woman like her would never date a guy like me, like I’m some juvenile superhero of geekdom. I’m tall, I’m lean, and I’m floppy-haired. These attributes do not equal hotness, apparently. And then there’s my damn dimple. It’s not luring the ladies in, I assure you.
And yet, Elaine was totally checking me out just now. More accurately, she was drooling over my arms. Who knew the object of my affection has an arm fetish? Note to self: buy tank tops and develop an immunity to air conditioning.
I’ve been crushing on Elaine Madigan since I started at Chesapeake Shores less than a year ago, and despite my lone attempt and the ensuing alarm disaster, I have yet to actually ask her out on a date. There’s something about her that’s untouchable, almost ethereal. She’s beautiful. She’s got these big eyes the color of dark chocolate and pretty freckles and full lips that make me think especially dirty things. And that hair. It’s long and shiny and brown, and I want to wrap my fist around it and pull. I’ve spent a shameful amount of time fantasizing about her hips and her tits and all the things I’d like to do to them. And sure, some of those fantasies involve her dressed up as Leia and me wielding a lightsaber, but don’t judge.
So, yea, I’m a geek in lust. But it hasn’t always been this way. I loathed her very presence for the first thirty seconds, give or take, of our acquaintance. It was the beginning of my first week here, and we got a call in that one of the copy editors had spilled coffee and completely killed her keyboard—the third one that month. I should have let Dan take the call. That was, after all, his job, not mine. But as the head of IT and a lifelong technophile, I couldn’t let that shit go. I tagged the call as mine and made my way down to the third floor, ready to give hell to some woman named Elaine.
Because really, have some goddamn respect. It’s a computer, not a toy. It’s a tool that deserves proper care.
