Chapter 17

I'm spending my lunch break locked in a bathroom stall with contraband stationery, trying and failing to come up with a message to sneak into Thomas's messenger bag.

I should've written it at home when I had all weekend to think of something. But after obsessing over what to say for two days straight, I couldn't draft anything half-decent. So, I thought maybe coming to the office and getting a little visual inspiration would help—Thomas delivered, strutting into the lab looking as impossibly gorgeous as ever.

Ideally, I should tone things down from where we've left them on Friday. Both our messages were bordering on outright flirting. But I also figured that since this week we'll exchange only two notes, I can keep the flirtation levels up to at least a Thursday if not a full-fledged, end-of-the-week, going-to-make-you-obsess-all-weekend Friday scale.

But what do I write?

I stare at a pic of his last message on my phone.

Just pretty? I thought my eyes were smoldering. And the things I have to say about your butt wouldn't just cross the line, they'd obliterate it. So my hands are tied here. Have a great weekend, Campbell…

Should I make a bondage joke about his hands being tied?

Nah, too much.

Comment on the alleged smolderiness of his eyes?

The guy has an already big-enough ego as is.

I could tease him about something else entirely, but I can't come up with anything good. My brain is wiped out. Blank.

I lean my head backward against the stall door, grimacing in frustration. Why is it so hard to write a message that's witty and flirty but not too flirty? I bite my lip and tap the pen on the paper. Just as I'm about to give up, inspiration strikes. I grab the pen and quickly write:

I hope you had a great weekend despite the lack of smoldering eyes compliments. I survived without butt-related ones.

Not stellar, but good enough. Only the note needs a finishing line. I bite the back of the pen… mmm…

If you want, I can add a flattery drive to K-2P to fully stroke your ego over the weekends.

It's not the best, but I can't come up with anything better and I actually have to grab a bite to eat if I don't want to pass out mid-afternoon from low blood sugar, so this will have to do.

I slip the note into my agenda to be planted in Thomas's messenger bag later and exit the stall. While I'm washing my hands, Maria enters the restroom. She's late to her lunch break as well, so we decide to grab a quick hot dog from a cart outside. Despite it being late October, the temperature outdoors is mild, so Maria and I sit on a sunny bench to eat.

"Nice nail art," I comment, noticing her elaborate black and white polish.

"Thanks, boss, it goes with my costume for tomorrow."

"Let me guess," I say. "Wednesday Addams?"

Maria looks at me in mock shock. "What gave it away?"

I stare at the nail with "resting witch face" written white on black, the one that looks like a high-collared white shirt under a black blazer, and the one with a spiderweb.

I take in the remaining nails on her right hand, one white and one black. "You'd only need black tresses on that one." I point to the white one, and then at the black one. "And white WA initials to be any more obvious."

She smirks. "I was planning on adding those features tonight." Then her smirk widens. "What do you think the hot shot is coming as?"

I shrug, not wanting to give away how much I've obsessed over the same question. "Probably something obnoxiously wholesome like Captain America."

"Uuu-huu," Maria hoots. "I wouldn't mind seeing the big boss in a skin-tight body suit. Bet he wouldn't even have to add muscle foam pads." A pause. "Or crotch ones."

I roll my eyes. "Maria!"

"No, you're right. The selling point would probably be in the rear end."

"You're impossible." I shake my head at her and take another bite of my hot dog.

"Fine, fine," she relents with a chuckle. "I'm just saying, it wouldn't be the worst sight."

I laugh. "I'll try not to picture it."

Maria grins. "Good luck with that."

We finish our hot dogs and head back to the office building where the rest of the day passes without further mentions of Thomas Mercer's anatomical perfection or any more Halloween costume speculations.

Thomas drops in for a quick goodbye after another tour with one of my team leaders and goes home, leaving my chest in its usual fluttery state.

That night in my apartment, I check my bag and get the familiar thrill when I spot the blue note at the bottom. I read it and throw my head back laughing.

I can't believe you didn't tell me about Halloween's special dress code. If your droid hadn't told me, I could've come to work as the only asshole in civilian clothes. Mean, Campbell.

I don't compose a reply straight away. First, I want to see what his costume will be tomorrow.