Page 3 of Erotic Temptations 1
Always Janet.
I scrolled through my inbox. Spam, spam, and two frantic all-staff emails about the snack thief. That, apparently, was the real crisis at Megalith Data. Someone was stealing string cheese again. Maybe it was Janet. I honestly wouldn’t be surprised.
Ten seconds later, the phone buzzed. It was her, of course. She’d emailed me the info on the party, along with a message.
Iwillbe checking, just FYI. Also, I have a Tide pen if you need it. – J
I had to hand it to her. She was committed.
My fingers typed out a reply.
If you spot a random gay man in festive attire, please hold him at the door for me. Will pay bribes in cookies. Also, a Tide pen would be appreciated. S.O.S.
She replied immediately.
Tide pen on the way. And I’ll keep an eye out for eligible bachelors. You know I have a list.
Hard eye roll. Janet’s “list” was probably just a photo of Paul Rudd and a bunch of Tinder rejects.
Maybe she would surprise me this year. The lack of sex in my life was bordering on cruelty. Maybe Santa would leave a stud under my tree. First, I needed to put one up.
* * * *
Lunchtime rolled around surprisingly fast. Unfortunately, in my haste to get out the door this morning, I hadn’t packed a lunch and refused to sip on an off-brand energy drink and munch on Funyuns. Not happening. I’d rather lick the breakroom microwave than risk the Funyuns. The vending machine glared at me anyway, bathed in arctic LED lights, daring me to give in.
I briefly considered feeding it a dollar just to shut it up, but my dignity had already taken enough hits for one morning.
A low growl rumbled from my stomach, making a noise suspiciously close to a dying sea lion. The breakroom fridge had nothing but three mystery yogurts and a Tupperware container that might have contained a salad once. Hard to say. It haddeveloped a secondary ecosystem. I wasn’t in the mood for evolution.
The deli down the block was calling my name.
Grabbing my coat, I sneaked past Janet’s desk. Her head was buried in spreadsheets, lips pursed, pen tapping out some kind of Morse code for “I see you.” I made it to the elevator. Miracle of miracles, it worked this time. Seemed even the building wanted me to get carbs today.
By the time I reached the sidewalk, more snow had started sifting down. Fat, lazy flakes. Each footstep crunched through yesterday’s half-hearted attempt at plowing. Freezing wind needled through my missing buttons just as my boots slid a little on the crosswalk. I pretended it was swagger.
A block away, the deli’s neon sign flickered above a steamed window. It looked like everyone else had the same idea.
Inside was packed. Nothing like the scent of corned beef, garlic pickles, and the tang of cheap mustard to make a person salivate. The warmth hit me, humid and noisy and absolutely necessary. If there was such a thing as food therapy, this was it.
The crowd was shoulder-to-shoulder—guys in puffy coats, women in hats that could double as cat beds, one guy holding a yoga mat with an impatient look.
Tables were jammed so tight there wasn’t a straight line from the door to the sandwich queue. I barely found a spot to stand without backing into someone’s laptop or mood.
Two guys behind me were arguing about gluten, which apparently had ruined someone’s marriage. I tucked my hands into my pockets and studied the chalkboard menu. BLT. Turkey pesto. Something called a “MegaMelt” that looked like an assault on cholesterol levels more than a lunch.
It was nearly my turn when the old guy at the front yanked a coupon from his wallet…and proceeded to have a shoutingmatch over its expiration date. The counter girl didn’t blink. She’d seen battle.
“Next!” shouted a guy with a beard so thick it had its own microclimate.
I squeezed forward. “Turkey on sourdough. Mustard, not mayo. Tomatoes. Pickles on the side. Order of fries.”
He had a face that told you not to argue about condiments. I handed over my card, managed a smile that probably looked like a grimace, and shuffled to the side to wait. Nobody made eye contact. Everyone thumbed their phones, pretending this was just another workday and not the emotional minefield of the pre-holiday lunch rush.
The TV over the soda fridge played highlights from last night’s game, complete with closed captions that lagged by half a play. I scrolled through social media, then glanced up right as the guy called my order.
I snatched up the warm wax-paper bundle, my tray of fries, then scanned the room. Finding a table here was like getting a seat atHamilton. Most were crammed with duos or groups, all sprouting red noses and laughter.
Somebody stood, vacating a two-top next to the radiator. I pounced, grabbing the spot so fast you’d think there was gold buried under the plastic tabletop. My ass hit the wooden seat with all the grace of a sack of laundry.