Page 25 of Dolls & Daggers
My slacks tighten at the sight of her. The mini ruffled skirt and matching top she’s wearing today are white with pink floral designs, trimmed in lace, and entirely inappropriate for work. Yet, despite my best efforts, I appreciate the view, no matter how much Itry to convince myself I want to gouge my eyes out from all the pink.
Her white platforms click against the hardwood as she approaches my desk, hands clasped behind her, inadvertently—or vertently… is that a word? I should know whether that’s a word or not…advertently—pushing her chest out. “Kitty got your tongue, Songbird?”
Snapping out of my daydream—one where she’s sprawled across my desk in nothing but those heels—I return my gaze to my computer and nod. “Yeah, I’m almost finished.”
I expect her to leave, but Dove rounds my desk and hops onto it like she belongs there. She sets her phone down and swings her feet gently, her sugar cookie scent making my stomach ache. My erection is impossible to ignore, and I shift in my seat, desperate to hide it.
“How many more salon sessions is it gonna take?” she asks.
“At least two more,” I reply dryly, retyping the last sentence before hitting send. “And you’ll be getting the bill.”
Her laugh warbles like she’s trying to hold it in, but softens as she reaches out. From my peripheral, I see her hand—and I’d be lying if I said it doesn’t shock me when her fingers run through the top of my strands, nails dragging lightly against my scalp.
“I don’t know,” she teases. “I think pink suits you.”
Her hand falls as I look at her, my expression clearly shocked. The seriousness of her action quickly sobers her, and our eyes lock.
Fuck.I’m an idiot.
Dove showed her cards when she said we needed to sleep together to get it out of our systems. And I foolishly folded—not because I wanted to play it safe, but because the longer I spend around her, the more I realize one time won’t be enough to get her out of my head.
We both jolt when her phone rings, vibrating against my desk and ruining the moment. The name “Mom”flashes across the screen. She declines the call and hops down.
“I have to take Fang to his grooming appointment. When I get back, I’ll look over your article.”
“You get your rat groomed?” I ask, exhaling as she moves away. The further she gets, the better I can breathe, despite the way my chest clenches at the distance. She’s become an integral part of my day—to the point where I’m starting to miss our banter on the weekends. I’ve taken to stalking her social media just to feel some sort of connection to her. I know what book she’s reading in book club with Bunny, what she ate for dinner Sunday night, and what route she likes totake Fang for his walks. I’m becoming obsessed in a way I know will only end in disaster.
But what my body and head want are vastly different from my heart. Even though it’s been weeks, I still can’t disassociate her looks from the one person who caused me so much trauma that I can’t have a functioning relationship.
“Don’t call him a rat,” she scolds. “You’ll hurt his feelings.” She grabs the doorframe and swings herself into the hall. “I just have to drop him off. I should be back in twenty.”
“He has no hair! What’s the point of sending him to the groomer? Why don’t you just bathe him yourself?”
She turns and sticks her tongue out before disappearing down the hall.
The stupid, dopey smile lingering on my face doesn’t fade even when she walks by a few minutes later. Fang is wearing a hooded sweater, nestled in an oversized pink purse hanging off her shoulder, his tiny head poking out.
“Why don’t you just bleach your hair at home yourself?” she quips.
I open my mouth to reply, but she cuts me off.
“Exactly. It’s better when a professional does it.”
Fang yips and wiggles in his pink prison as if trying to escape and say hi, but Dove turns and heads towardthe elevators. Not that I’ve forgotten, but being reminded of my current hair situation breathes life into a way to get back at her.
Knowing she keeps a large calendar of her meetings and personal appointments in her office, I wait until her elevator is three floors gone before slinking down the hall, trying not to draw attention to myself.
No one so much as looks up at me while I duck into her pink-and-cream monstrosity of a workspace. Everything on her desk is lined up in pristine rows. If I’ve learned anything about Dove, it’s that she’s a perfectionist who needs all her tools to be precisely in order before she can get any work done. The calendar in question hangs on the wall behind her desk, littered with neon pink sticky notes in her perfect cursive, and cat stickers.
As I assumed, Fang’s groomer is listed, complete with a time and a sticker of a chihuahua wrapped in a towel. I glance behind me before pulling out my phone, ensuring no one has noticed me. Pressing call on the number under the listing, I hold my breath while waiting for someone to answer, debating whether to go through with this.
The rat didn’t hurt anyone. Technically, this won’t hurt the rat either, but I can’t wait to see the look on Dove’s face when she goes to pick up her little dog and–
“Good afternoon! Thank you for callingFluff N’ Puff. How may I assist you today?” an overly chipper woman greets.
“Hi, my girlfriend is about to drop off our dog for an appointment—Fang. I want to do something special for our little guy’s birthday, but I want it to be a surprise for Dove. Can I count on your discretion?” I try to sound normal, so there’s no question whether I’m telling the truth, but I’m surprised by how easily the lie slips off my tongue.
Easy there. You’re calling her your girlfriendandtalking about the rat like he’s your kid?
