Our gazes immediately drop and he raises an eyebrow in a silent will you look at that?
I smirk and we keep walking and then the skirt turns as she talks to her friends. It’s Kathryn. I’m taken aback.
I nod. “Kathryn.”
She smiles politely. “Hello.” She smiles at Jay. “Hi.”
“Hello.” He smiles.
We stand still on the spot and watch her leave the building with her colleagues.
My eyes meet with my brother’s. “You should look into that,” he says.
I stare after her and then, finally, I snap out of my momentary trance. “Not my type.”
Jameson watches her through the front windows as she crosses the road and I feel my hackles rise. “She’s everyone’s type,” he mutters dryly.
Everyone’s type.
“Will you shut the fuck up?” I put my hands into my trouser pockets in annoyance. “Are we going or what?”
I send my last email and stretch my arms in the air. It’s been a long day . . . week. I get up and go to the bathroom and pick up my briefcase and put it on my desk to pack, and then I remember what day it is.
Thursday.
I glance at my watch: 6:40 p.m.
I wonder if she’s . . .
I sit back down at my computer and look around guiltily. This is nothing new. I seem to be always looking around guiltily lately; guilty of watching a certain snarky IT manager as she works.
I’ve got issues, I know, and I hate to admit it, but her deciding to openly hate me this week after our little episode in my office is a major fucking turn-on.
Hell, I’ve even been loitering in the sauna after work, hoping for a rematch.
So far, no luck.
I’m never going to do anything about this sick attraction that I seem to have for her, but for some reason I can’t stop. I tell myself that this is the last time I’ll look at her on the security camera, and sure enough, half an hour later, I find myself doing it again.
Like now, for instance.
I exhale heavily in frustration with myself, click through the security cameras and go to level ten, scroll through until I get to her office . . . it’s empty.
I slump in my seat.
Fuck it.
I stare at her office on the screen while I contemplate my next move.
I mean, I could ask her out, but we both know how that’s going to end.
I don’t even want to go out with her. She’s a raving bitch, remember?
What the fuck am I doing?
I go to close down my computer and I see a foot coming out of the bottom of the screen. Huh?
I lean closer to get a better look.
It is a foot, wearing a white sneaker. What’s she doing on the floor? Is she stretching or something?
I run my finger back and forth over my lips as I watch; she’s dead-still.
What’s she doing?
A feeling of uneasiness creeps over me.
“Move,” I whisper.
I click through the camera angles as I try to see her better.
Nothing.
I rest my chin on my hand as I watch for five minutes while she lies dead still.
Ten minutes . . . fifteen.
Fuck.
Something’s wrong. I march to the elevator and hit the button for level ten. I watch the dial move slowly as it travels down through the floors. “Hurry up,” I mutter. “Hurry the fuck up.”