No one is at the office because it’s Sunday and only people who make bad choices—like fucking their intern—would consider coming in to work over eating brunch. Usually, I love the office on weekends. All the lights are off, the only illumination from the sun streaking in through office windows. Quiet, clean, I can work with my door open and talk to myself without anyone hearing me.
I hesitate outside my office door. The cleaning staff will have vacuumed, wiped down the bathroom, emptied the garbage can. There should be no sign of him in there, in my space, but nonetheless I’m scared to enter.
With a sinking feeling, I realize this place will never be the same again.
I push the door open. My office looks exactly like it always does. Neat, clean. The whole office is so quiet, and the street below is, too, I could hear a pin drop.
Or a button pop. The sound of my blouse buttons pinging off my desk, the wall, that vase in the corner echoes in my head. I hold the front of my cardigan together in a protective reflex.
Walking up to my desk, I rest my hand on the glass. No one would be able to tell that my bare ass sat on that desk two nights ago. I can almost feel the heat our bodies left there. A chill runs up my spine. The good kind.
When I close my eyes, I can feel him here, smell him, his deodorant, shampoo. His skin, that something that is uniquely him but unidentifiable. If I took a step backward I’m positive he’d be there to wrap his arms around me, slipping his fingertips past the cup of my bra to pinch my nipple between two fingers, pulling aside the fabric of my shirt to kiss me there.
He’s invaded my space, my most sacred place, but I’m too turned on to be mad about it right now. I open my eyes and shake out my hands. I’m fantasizing about my intern when, for all I know, my career might be over come Monday morning.
It becomes a little hard to breathe, my chest crushed in a giant’s fist. Dizziness, like no matter how hard I try the room won’t stop spinning around me and I can’t latch onto anything to keep me upright. I’ve worked so hard for everything I have, I have taken so much shit from the people at this company, from Richard, and in one moment of frustration and hormonal lust, I lost control of my professional life.
I do the only thing I can think of to calm myself down. I repeat the words Wesley said to me last week.
Everything will be okay.
I say it again, out loud, “Everything will be okay.” And again and again. I say it until the words stop making sense.
My phone chimes a notification and the desperate, confused woman inside me wants it to be him. But it’s a reminder that my ex’s new bride’s shower—starting at eleven—is today. Smashing my fingers on the screen, I delete the notification and the event from my calendar.
“I hope you’re very happy together,” I growl to no one.
A glint of gold catches my attention when I open my eyes and I get down on my hands and knees, crawling under my desk.
“Shit.”
It’s a gold button from the blouse I wore on Friday. I spend the next three hours combing through every fiber in my carpet, under each piece of furniture, and in every corner. I don’t find any more buttons, but the slow, methodical task calms me. It’s like walking around the room with my shoes off. By eleven o’clock, I realize with each pass of my hand over the carpet that I’ve made a mistake. But my mistake wasn’t Wesley, like I so callously let him believe. It was Richard. Putting my trust in him and ignoring his behavior because of a misplaced sense of loyalty.
I sit on my heels as sunlight streams into my office. The button is warm from how I’ve clutched it tightly in my palm, and the sharp edges bite into my skin. But the pain is a reminder of what happened last night and more importantly why...
Because I like Wesley Chambers. I like the way he works hard no matter what job I throw at him. He’s more loyal than almost anyone else in this office. Kinder, too. He doesn’t do anything with an expectation that I’ll do something for him in return. Despite how much it must hurt him to talk about, he’s been nothing been supportive and forthcoming about his mother.
And he kisses me like I’m a dream.
He can’t be a mistake when it’s his words, his voice that pulled me out of my panic.
I stand, placing the button on my desk. I know what I need to do.