Surprise Me...

“Glad you enjoyed it.” He handed over a five, wishing he could have fallen for someone uncomplicated like Kaitlin instead of beating his head against Melanie’s brick wall for so long. He hoped he’d survive until she showed up at work. His heart was already beating so hard he was afraid it would give out, classic heart attack in the middle of the shop. He should probably pour his coffee down the office sink. “Pretty odd cast of characters, wasn’t it?”

“Yes! Where did they find those people?” She put the change into his hand, her fingers lingering.

He was getting even more anxious. From her touch, from his guilt that he might be encouraging her by showing up every day, from the sudden fear that Melanie might have come in early today and he was missing her. What if she was so eager to see him again after last night that—

“I, um, was wondering.” Kaitlin glanced at whoever was behind him, and leaned forward so her words wouldn’t carry.

Instinctive panic. She was going to ask him out. He couldn’t handle this. Not today.

“Listen, thanks for the coffee, Kaitlin. As always.” He spoke loudly, pretending he hadn’t heard the beginning of her sentence. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

“Oh, um.” Her eyes dropped. “Yeah, I…okay.”

Smiling, he backed away a few steps, waved and turned, feeling like a schmuck. A prime schmuck. Why couldn’t she have asked him another day, when he wasn’t completely insane to be near Melanie?

Because there weren’t any days like that. He knew he was obsessed; he knew his feelings weren’t rational or smart or probably even sane. No woman had ever affected him like this—okay, not since junior high school, when crazed hormones made obsession the norm. No woman should affect him like this. He understood about balance, about healthy infatuation gone too far; he knew all of it. But try convincing his id.

He left, feeling Kaitlin staring wistfully at his back, imagining the customer behind him already annoyed that his barista was not baristing.

Why Melanie? He’d asked himself over and over again. He didn’t know. He only knew he had a solid-as-rock conviction that she was the woman for him, and nothing, no amount of talking to himself or reading self-help books, had been able to shake it.

After last night…well, this morning, Melanie could, with a single glance, wipe out every long-dormant hope that had sprung ecstatically to life the previous night.

Forget heart attack. He’d have a stroke and be a vegetable the rest of his life.

Luckily, the morning was cool and refreshing, so he could arrive at work a nervous wreck, yes, but not a sweaty nervous wreck.

He pushed through the front door of Triangle Graphics, greeting Anna, the receptionist, who was stationed in front of a huge analog clock.

Eight forty-five.

If Melanie showed up at her usual time, nine-thirty at the very earliest, that gave him forty-five minutes to find out if he’d be the happiest man on the planet or the most broken.

He strode down the short hall to the open room where the graphic designers worked, including Melanie; said good morning to Todd Maniscotto, his and Melanie’s boss; nodded to Jenny, Melanie’s good friend; sat at his cubicle, which was right next to Melanie’s.

Melanie. Melanie. Melanie.

Roughly forty-minutes later, thinking he could expect Melanie any second, he checked his watch to find it was actually roughly five minutes later.

Not heart attack, not stroke; aneurism. One big pop in his brain and done, before he knew what was happening.

He opened the file he’d been working on last night before he went home, ate dinner alone, went to bed and was awakened by the sexiest woman alive sliding into his bed and.

Get a grip, Edgar.

Where was he? Working on a sporting goods catalog for Premium Sports. Today’s challenge: how to make a package of golf tees look like the sexiest product in the world.

Paint Melanie’s picture on it?

Grip, Edgar, remember?

He grappled with the tees and won, rotated a baseball mitt this way and that, changed the text to wrap more snugly around it, all with a few clicks of his mouse.

As convenient and time-saving as computers were, part of Edgar couldn’t help romanticizing the idea of Man at His Drafting Table, like his architect father, pencils sharp, straightedges handy. He’d grown up playing trucks around his dad’s legs, since his father had worked around the clock. Whenever Dad had taken time off, he’d sit blinking at his family in surprise as if he couldn’t quite figure out how they had gotten there.

“Good morning, Ralph.” He heard Melanie’s voice down at the end of the line of cubicles.

Edgar fumbled with his mouse, selected something he shouldn’t have, reached to fix it and hit the wrong button on his keyboard; his computer started shutting down.

Damn it. Edgar, the epitome of cool. No wonder Melanie had been able to resist him for so long.

A glance at his watch while he tried to steady his breathing. Nine-fifteen. Early for her. Good sign? Bad sign?

Hang on, Edgar, you’ll know all too soon.

Her perfume rounded the corner of his cubicle a split second before she did. Just the scent had him buzzing with arousal. She’d been everything he dreamed of in bed. No, everything and more because his dreams had been dreams and last night she’d been real.

“Morning, Eddie.”

“Hey.” He grinned up at her, as tenderly as he dared, knowing no matter how she felt underneath, she’d still be skittish this morning. Whatever had made her bolt in the middle of the night wouldn’t have resolved itself this soon. And with their coworkers all around, she couldn’t exactly launch into praises of his sexual technique or drop to her knees and confess undying love. Which was a damn shame.

But she’d have to give some sign, wouldn’t she?

God, she was beautiful. Yawning, clutching her Starbucks cup, hair disheveled as if someone had been tangling his fingers through it all night in order to kiss her as often as possible. Her lips were dark, chin pink from his stubble. He hated to think he’d hurt her at all, but the man part of him—yes, there was a man part even to him—enjoyed a cheap macho thrill that he’d left his mark.

She wore a clingy rose-colored knee-length skirt that molded itself to her gorgeous thighs. Her ass looked firm and strong underneath and he nearly sighed when she sat, and he lost the view. Last night his hands had been a-a-ll over that—

He had to stop thinking about it right now.

Or else he was going to stand up, yank the skirt up those strong soft thighs, lift her onto the desk, step between her legs and—

He had to stop thinking about that right now.

Or else he was going to— “How was Chicago?”

He blinked. Back to earth. How was what? “Chicago?”

“Hello? Edgar?” She leaned down, smiling, waved in front of his face. “Last night? Remember?”

He remembered every second. “Oh, yes.”

“So…?”

He was lost. “So what?”

“Tell me how it was.”

He stared blankly. “I don’t.”