Total pages in book: 161
Estimated words: 154890 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 774(@200wpm)___ 620(@250wpm)___ 516(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 154890 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 774(@200wpm)___ 620(@250wpm)___ 516(@300wpm)
But did Brin order it or Whit? I know who my money is on.
For all its loveliness, I pick at my lunch while barely tasting it. My mind is awash with conflicting thoughts. Did he call me into his office to stop me from talking to Brin? I see the way he looks at me, and I feel the electric-like attraction bouncing between us whenever we’re close. But he runs so hot and cold, yet even when he’s being a grump, I still find him so hot.
I’ve got nothing. No ideas and no place to go. Which is how I find myself in the copy room after six thirty, in no great hurry to go home, completing my not-so-grand admin-overachieving plan.
“No!” My specially designed cover sheet snags on the coil, tearing at the corner. “Dammit!” What kind of idiot company buys a wire coil when plastic coils work much better? Sliding the cover sheet from the top of the pile, I scrunch it into a ball before launching it at the box designated for paper waste. Still muttering my disgust at binding machines, paper, men, and the universe in general, I whip out my phone and send the cover sheet to the colossus of a printer again. I slap my phone down, anticipating the machine’s whir as it digitally rouses itself.
It takes a moment or two for the machine’s lack of whir to penetrate my black mood. But when it becomes clear nothing is happening, I indiscriminately stab the buttons with my finger. The thing beeps in protest, then gives me a little attitude on the display panel.
No paper.
“Asshats,” I complain, tugging at the paper tray as though the thing is lying to me.
But it isn’t.
I stomp my way over to the supply closet, flip open a couple of lids because why wouldn’t people put the lids back on empty boxes? It makes so much sense! Urgh. I toss the empty boxes behind me, find a non-empty one, and pull out a couple of reams. Flattening the paper to my chest, I swing around in the cramped space when something hinders my forward motion in the doorway. The second law of motion states: force equals mass, multiplied by acceleration. That this mass is accelerating at a rate powered by frustration means I ignore the resisting tug at the door. At least, until I hear the ripping sound. I try to turn but my stupid skirt is caught on something.
My stupid skirt is caught on a stupid nail, and my stupid self is about to make matters much worse.
“No!” The fabric rips from my hip to the middle of my back. Worse, as I twist, I force the tear in another direction, making a huge flap over one cheek of my ass. A literal ass cheek envelope—a window to my butt! I think I might’ve caught myself on a nail too, but I’m too angry to pay any attention to that.
“This day is the worst,” I grate out as I try to work the fabric free. Of all the days for this to happen, it would be one when I haven’t paired my outfit with a longer jacket. Bare-assing it home on the London Underground is not the kind of experience I want to endure. Not that it matters because, at this rate, I won’t have a ripped skirt to wear because it won’t budge from the fudging nail!
But then, success! Success that sends me stumbling, a nearby desk the only thing preventing my fall.
My skirt is ruined, my ass might be bleeding, and my temper is more than a little frayed. I’ll need a dozen safety pins or maybe some duct tape. If anyone asks, I’ll just tell them it’s a new look. Straight off the Milan catwalks.
I return to the store closet, much more carefully this time, and begin pulling open more boxes. Pens. Ballpoint. Sharpies. Highlighters. Folders. Toner and ink. There’s not even a packet of rubber bands in here. I find myself pausing in my rummaging. Why did Whit slip a rubber band over his wrist? Is it some kind of anxiety prevention? He doesn’t strike me as the anxious sort. Aversion therapy? Maybe it was just what he said it was; just somewhere to keep it. I forcibly push away my pondering. I have bigger problems, like getting home tonight without exposing my ass to half of London.
A search through the rest of the copy room offers nothing in the way of a solution. I end up slumped over the small desk, raking through the drawers, but there’s nothing there, either. Nothing beyond a couple of grungy old hair ties, at least, which might do in a pinch. Maybe? Somehow? Lord, I don’t know! I guess I should be relieved most people have gone for the day because maybe I can make it back to my desk and…