Page 39 of Hate You, Maybe
“Well, he’s single.” I cut her off before she goes any deeper into her tinkle metaphor.
“EEK!” She claps her hands. “If you don’t mind, then, I’m probably going to?—”
“Switch!” Bob calls out.
Going to what?
Tori hops to the left, landing in front of the man next tome. “Wait,” I yelp at her. “We didn’t share our interesting things!”
“I can tie a cherry stem into a knot with my tongue,” she says.
Becauseof courseshe can.
“I’m allergic to mangoes,” I try telling her, in case she needs the information later, but she’s already busy talking to Joseph from Cleveland.
He learned to drive when he was five.
Another fact I memorized.
At this point, I’ve met more than a dozen strangers whose details I’m keeping filed in my brain. I can’t wait to get back to my clipboard and make a list as soon as we’re done. Meanwhile, Bob and Hildy maneuver our lines around so we get to talk to everyone, including the people in our own rows. And the closer Dexter gets to me, the faster my blood races through my veins.
Should I give him a heads-up that Tori’s interested in him?
If I do, he might spend the next couple of days distracted by her and her cherry-stem-twisting tongue and forget all about the fact that Bob and Hildy are giving Mr. Wilford feedback on us at the end of the retreat.
This could be my chance to prove I’m the employee with better focus. A more cooperative, collaborative coworker. So why does the idea of Tori and Dex together make me queasy? I guess I just don’t want her to get hurt.
Yes. I’m sure that’s it.
And anyway, I don’t have time to consider a different reason because Dex moves into the space across from me, and every other thought in my head goes foggy.
“Hello, there.” He reaches out as if to shake my hand. “I’m Dexter Michaels.”
Wow. He does look like Lincoln James.
“Ummm, hi?” I scrunch up my nose, holding back my hand. “We already know each other.”
“Yes, but we’re supposed to introduce ourselves. Don’t you want to follow the rules?”
My weak spot.
“Fine.”
He smiles. “Nice to meet you, Sayla Candice Kroft.”
I startle. “How did you—Oh.” Heat blossoms in my cheeks as I recall the awkward moment in Mr. Wilford’s office after he said his middle name is opportunity, and I blurted out my real middle name.
But he remembered that? Strange.
“Nice to meet you, too,” I manage, accepting his handshake. When his large palm engulfs my smaller one, little zaps of electricity pulse along my fingertips up past my elbows, all the way to my shoulders.
Like I’m being lit on fire.
I’ve felt the brush of his hand multiple times in the past week. Once, when we both accidentally grabbed one of my clipboards in the weight room. And again at the grocery store over the tampon boxes. In both those moments, I chalked the friction up to static from the weight room mats and my fuzzy slippers. But we’re out in the woods now. Wearing hiking boots. There’s no friction here. Just dirt. So my body shouldn’t be reacting like this.
I wish it weren’t.
I need to stay focused. Follow the rules. Tell him my interesting fact that’s probably not so interesting.
