Page 10 of Dear Hattie

“Harriet,” Wesley says, and he sounds miserable but I hold up a hand.

“You win, Tanaka.” The smile I force is ugly. Ifeelugly, right down to my churning insides. “Though you definitely played dirty this round.”

Wesley shakes his head. “I wasn’t playing.”

“Well, I was.” My limbs are clumsy as I stumble to the door, and I’m so relieved at the wash of cool air when I yank it open that I let out a tiny groan. “Stupid game, though.”

It’s a mean thing to say, but that’s what I want. A way to humiliate him back.

And as I stagger through the ghostly clusters of work pods on the fourth floor, I feel as sour as my words.

Six

Dear Hattie

Dear Hattie,

I’ve been married to my husband for three years now, and I love him. We have our share of stresses—arguing over the dishes, bickering about his snoring, the usual small stuff—but overall, we’re so happy together. Our relationship is respectful and comfortable.

Maybetoocomfortable.

Because… for the last six months, since he came to stay in our guest room, I’ve been crushinghard.On my brother in law.

My husband’s brother is everything I would have avoided in a man back in my single days. He’s a player, always taking a different woman out on dates; he has no steady job, no fixed address, no sense of responsibility.

And yet… he’s sohot, Hattie. When I walk into the kitchen and he’s there, staring at me for a beat too long, I feel like steam is coming off the top of my head. My legs turn to jelly. Iwanthim.

If anything happened, it would destroy my lovely marriage. And it wouldn’t be anythingreal—just another notch on this man’s bedpost.

So tell me Hattie: how do I live for another minute with this man under my roof? How do I numb the temptation?

Forbidden Crush

* * *

Dear Hattie,

I have this recurring dream about being abducted by aliens and probed. It’sverydetailed. Should I tell NASA?

Lifted and Lubed

Seven

Wesley

“So.” Raj bats the ping pong ball back at me, bouncing on his toes at the other end of the table. “Thrown any women on the floor lately?”

I return the ball, clipping it harder than necessary. Raj lunges to hit it back. “You heard about that.”

My assistant shrugs. “The podcasters are all terrible gossips.”

They really are. I sigh, scratching my neck with the side of my paddle. The ball flies past me, way over the table to the vending machines, and Raj jogs around the table to fetch it.

The break area is busy this morning, humming with chatter. People lounge at tables, sipping coffees and nibbling on pretzels. Someone is holding a loud video call, neighbors be damned, and two guys are building a house of cards in fierce silence.

Harriet Fry is not here—obviously. She’s been avoiding me for days.

And who can blame her? Ever since I dumped her on the ground, that moment plays in a horrifying loop in my brain. I watch it over and over, in sickening slow motion, inwardly screaming at myself to do something else.Anythingelse. Make a different choice. Anything but tossing the woman I desperately want onto the floor like a crumpled napkin.

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