Page 13

Chapter Thirteen

Justin

The Birmingham trade show is four days of testosterone and terrible coffee.

I land three major accounts, deliver my presentation without any technological mishaps, and navigate the endless networking events without having to admit I can’t remember if I’ve already talked to someone about their golf handicap.

It helps that the networking events are pretty much code for “try to overwhelm the other person with your handshake strength” and “see how many sports metaphors you can work into casual conversation.”

The bright spots in my week are the emails from Drew that kept lighting up my phone.

Somehow, what started as an exchange about my lack of technological issues has turned into an almost constant stream of emails where we banter back and forth about cat conspiracy theories.

Some of the highlights include Drew’s suggestion that cats are actually extraterrestrial researchers documenting human behavior— they sit there judging us because they’re mentally writing field notes .

I counter with a hypothesis that cats invented gravity just so they could knock things off tables— it’s all a grand feline experiment to test their creation .

Drew comes back with the hypothesis that cats are secretly running the internet and created cat videos to distract us from their real agenda. After all, did you notice how the internet went mainstream right when cats needed to share their propaganda?

I love Drew’s deadpan sense of humor. Sometimes, I have to read his emails three times to catch all the layers of snark he’s managed to embed in a single sentence.

Today is my first day back in the office, and I’ve spent most of it dodging Pete’s attempts to rope me into their new office Olympics event. I’m trying hard to focus on my follow-up emails and ignore the fierce debate about whether synchronized swivel chair spinning is a legitimate sport.

But when I go into the morning tea room and spot Drew’s familiar figure fixing himself a cup of coffee, all my internal organs do a strange flip-flop.

I take a deep breath and head to the counter, mentally rehearsing normal greetings like I’m preparing for an Oscar-worthy performance of Guy Who Definitely Hasn’t Spent Four Days Overthinking This Exact Moment .

“Hey,” is my amazing opening.

Drew snaps his head up and his hand freezes mid-coffee scoop from where he’s loading coffee into the portafilter, sending a few grounds scattering across the counter.

“Hey,” he says. He tips the scoop into the portafilter with careful concentration then grabs a dishcloth to wipe up the coffee grounds that have staged their great escape across the counter.

“I see you’re conducting an experiment on gravity’s effects on coffee grounds.”

There’s that quirk of Drew’s lips that never fails to send a thrill through me.

“I was actually just testing the counter’s coffee-repelling capabilities,” he says.

“I think it failed its performance review,” I say.

The quirk of his lips evolves into a proper grin, the kind that makes me temporarily forget about things like breathing and forming coherent sentences.

“So, how did Cassie and Tabitha survive you being away?” he asks.

I snap my attention away from his lips and force myself to focus on our conversation. “Well, despite the fact that our neighbor Ms. Cavill fed and played with them every day, they are still punishing me. Apparently, four days is the equivalent of seventeen years in cat time. Cassie’s developed a new habit of sitting on my chest at three a.m. and staring at me like I’m personally responsible for all the world’s problems. And Tabitha’s staging protest performances, which mainly involve knocking everything off my bedside table while maintaining direct eye contact.”

Drew laughs, and I try to prevent the flush of satisfaction that goes through me at the sound.

I fail miserably.

And it’s the confidence that his laugh brings that has my next words falling out of my mouth.

“Are you doing anything this Saturday?”

Drew’s laughter stops abruptly.

Oh fuck, does he think I’m asking him out on a date? Did that sound like a date-like request? I almost start hyperventilating at the thought.

I stumble to explain. “One of our suppliers gave the sales team some tickets to Wimbledon, and I just thought you’ve probably never been to Wimbledon, right? And I still feel I owe you for fixing all my tech stuff, so if you’re interested, I could suggest you for one of the tickets. I’m sure Roger won’t object. He knows how useful you’ve been to the whole department.”

“I don’t know…” Drew shifts his weight, his hand absently rearranging the sugar packets on the counter into neat rows. “Sports aren’t really my thing.”

“But Wimbledon isn’t just about sports,” I say. “It’s this bizarre mix of British traditions that make absolutely no sense, but everyone treats them like they’re written in stone. Like the strawberries.”

Drew’s eyebrows shoot up. “There are traditions around strawberries?”

“Yup. There’s this big tradition in Wimbledon around having strawberries and cream. They go through something like twenty-seven tons of strawberries during the tournament. And there’s set dimensions the strawberries have to be.”

Drew blinks at me. “You’re making this up.”

“I swear I’m not. They take their strawberry logistics very seriously.” I lean against the counter, trying to look casual while my stomach does that weird swoop thing again. “Plus, they have Pimm’s.”

“What’s Pimm’s?”

“It’s this drink that’s basically summer in a glass. Though the fruit they put in it has a tendency to launch surprise attacks when you least expect it. I nearly got taken out by a rogue cucumber slice last year.”

Drew’s mouth twitches. “Sounds hazardous.”

“Oh, trust me, it can be.”

Drew takes a careful sip of his coffee and seems to be deliberating. “Okay, I’ll come. But I’m not pretending to understand what a love-fifteen score means.”

“Deal,” I say. “Though I should warn you that if it rains, the British spectators treat it like an immersive theater experience. They actually cheer for the people pulling the covers over the court.”

“Well, if I’m going to watch people wrestle with a tarp, at least I know it comes with strawberries.”

I laugh, and his mouth quirks into that almost-smile.

“I’ll arrange everything with Roger and email you, okay?”

“Okay.”

As I head back to my desk, I try not to think about how getting Drew to agree to come to Wimbledon with me feels like a bigger win than landing the three major accounts at the trade show.

I fail miserably at that too.