Throwing Shade: A Romantic Holiday Story, Page 2

I don’t remember any of those.”

  He shakes his head. “Hardy!”

  “Oh God,” I groan, going from embarrassed to ashamed. “Hardy, I just… but wait…”

  “What?”

  “There weren’t ‘like’ nine times,” I remind him. “According to your very precise calculations, we have met exactly nine times.”

  “And you don’t remember any of them?”

  I’d like to lie, but he seems like the kind of guy who might call me on it if I did. And I’ve already hurt him enough, apparently. So I shake my head, looking slightly away and licking my creamy maroon lipstick nervously.

  He nods, then shakes his head; then nods again.

  “Do you really remember them so well?”

  He hears the serious tone in my voice and pauses, then nods again. “Yeah, Cara, I do. Every. Single. One.”

  I frown. Now I feel even worse.

  “Then why didn’t you ever say anything?”

  “Oh. My. God,” he chuckles, more in amusement than shock by this point. “I totally did. Every. Single. Time. I mean, not much, but… I always said ‘Hi’ or ‘Here are your files’ or asked about your day or something.”

  I frown. “That’s not talking, Hardy. That’s… verbal waving.”

  He chuckles at the odd turn of phrase. Me too. I kind of just made it up.

  “It’s more than you ever said to me,” he huffs, and he’s got a point.

  I nod, frowning a little. “Okay, I get that. I’m sorry, Hardy. I must have been busy.”

  “Nine times? In the parking lot? In the break room? In the elevator?!?”

  I blush a little, and not just because he’s calling me out. “I’m always busy,” I explain, frowning, feeling anxious just thinking about it. “Ever since the day I started here, I’ve been behind the eight ball. Everyone else in the Editorial Department has their act together, and I just kind of sit here... faking it, hoping I’ll get caught up one day, but I never do.”

  He cocks his head a little, looking at me funny. “I would have never known,” he says, pouring us both a little more 80s Gravy. But less this time, like he’s done drinking. Or maybe is more interested in something else. “You always seem so together. I mean, everyone here at Holiday Hannah’s loves you. I guess… maybe that’s why I never say more to you.”

  “Why?”

  He shrugs, shirt sliding up his belly again and this time my eyes linger on the inch or three of exposed flesh without looking away. “I always figured you’d laugh at me.”

  “For what?” I snort, looking back up at him.

  Another shrug. “I don’t know. Why do pretty girls always laugh at guys like me for?”

  I shake my head. “Guys like you? You mean… guys who wear sunglasses in the copy room?”

  His surprised snort is adorable, and contagious. “You know what I mean.”

  “No,” I correct him. “You think I know what you mean. You think I’ve got some picture of you in my head, but… I don’t.”

  “Because you never even think of me at all,” he huffs, crossing his arms over his chest and dragging his shirt up even higher, while his flipped jacket collar nearly lops off both ears.

  Just then we hear heavy breathing and turn, finding Molly Simms standing in the doorway, practically busting out of her neon pink tube dress and peacock blue leg warmers.

  “Whoops,” she says, closing her purse shaped like an old 45-record and turning around. “Guess I’ll find somewhere else to powder my nose.”

  I turn back, but Hardy is still watching me carefully. “How often do you think about Molly?” I ask.

  He wrinkles his nose, cute and pug beneath his sunglasses. “Who?”

  I smile knowingly, jerking a glitter nail polished thumb over my shoulder at her retreating form. “Molly Simms, from accounting.”

  “I… never, I guess.”

  “Why not?”

  He shrugs. “I’ve just… never noticed her before, I suppose.”

  I shake my head, gloating a little. “Exactly. And why not?”

  “She’s not my type, I guess.”

  “There you go then,” I say.

  He chuckles. “So I’m your Molly Simms?”

  “Exactly!” I feel so relieved now; he finally gets it.

  But he must not, because he’s shaking his head again. “Here’s the difference, Cara: Molly Simms may not be my type, but I at least stopped to notice her stumble in here, and I won’t soon forget it. I’ve run into you nine times in less than a year and you never remembered one of them.”

  I smile and purr, “I’ll always remember this one, Hardy.”

  He blushes, fast and hard. I can’t remember anyone ever blushing that fast before. At least, not from anything I did. “Well, that’s something,” he murmurs, reaching for his cup.

  I look around the copy room, “White Christmas” blaring from the party mix, and settle back on him. “Is that what you were doing in here?” I ask. “Just waiting for me to stumble in so you could tell me how rude I’ve been to you all year?”

  He chuckles. “Wow,” he says, rolling his eyes. “No, Cara, I took the hint… five or six meetings ago. I was just kind of biding my time before I could leave the party without seeming rude about it.”

  He shrugs around in his huggy shirt and rearranges his sunglasses as if to show how uncomfortable he is.

  I frown. My version was a whole lot sexier. “Besides,” he adds, “how was I supposed to know Larry Sinclair would make out with Sasha from HR and you’d come running in here looking for… for… what, exactly?”

  “You saw that?” I ask, hiding my face behind my hands.

  He chuckles, but not unkindly. “Cara, the whole office saw it. I’m… I’m sorry.”

  “Why?” I huff, the image of Larry in his retro purple track suit, drunk and groping the new Human Resources intern in her sexy aerobics instructor costume flashing before my eyes. “I would figure it would make you happy to see me hurt, after all I’ve done to you.”

  He leans forward, voice gentle. “Why would that make me happy, Cara? Why would that make anyone who cares about you happy?”

  I shake my head. “How can you care about me, Hardy? You hardly know me.”

  “You’re wrong,” he says, sitting up a little higher and finally taking off his sunglasses, folding them absently and slipping them inside one of his giant jacket pockets. “I know all about you, Cara. More than you’d think.”

  “Like what?” I ask, marveling at his soft brown eyes beneath the bright copy room lighting. “Besides my name and where my cubicle is, I mean?”

  “I know you like scary movies,” he begins. “I heard you and Sasha talking about the new Werewolf Elves from Mars movie that one time I was waiting to hand you those new drink menu files.”

  “So you eavesdrop, too?” I tease, pulse pounding with his obvious adoration. “Go on.”

  He chuckles and says, “I know you voted for Obama.”

  “What?” I gasp. “Isn’t that… illegal?”

  “Your bumper sticker,” he explains.

  “Okay, so… stalk much?”

  “I know you always wear red on Fridays,” he says, and his voice takes on a more… intimate… tone.

  “How?” I ask, but he doesn’t answer this time. He doesn’t have to.

  I picture him, watching me on Fridays – on most days – the way I grab a soda in the break room or maybe when I come off the elevator or stare out the window on the eighth floor while I’m waiting for the printer to warm up. The thought of him watching me that way makes my skin warm and I know, if I didn’t have all this purple glitter on my face, he could see me blushing.

  He shakes his head instead, and goes on in that same warm, intimate tone. “I know you could never like a guy like me,” he says, looking away, then back to meet my eyes. “Which sucks because I’m a really good guy, Cara. I like scary werewolf elf movies, too. And I love the way you edit, and that you’re always late because you take your time, an
d I love the color red. Especially… especially the way it looks on you…”

  His voice trails off, leaving me speechless as well. It’s more than he’s ever said to me, in a year. It’s more, I think, than any guy has ever said to me. Chuck Grossman, Larry Sinclair… any of them, ever.

  My heart thumps and I push my cup away, so he knows it’s me talking, and not the store bought margarita mix. “I see you, Hardy Fink. Right now, in front of me. I see beyond your ill-fitting tuxedo shirt and your goofy Miami Vice jacket. And from now on, I’ll always see you.”

  He nods, eyes wide and expectant, and I moisten my lips, tasting the grape flavor of my maroon lipstick. It goes perfectly with my sexy purple aerobics instructor leotard. “Is that… is that enough?”

  He shakes his head, waiting for more. “I hear you,” I go on, standing in my sexy mauve heels, the ones I bought special to match my lilac leg warmers. The ones that cost half a paycheck; the ones Larry Sinclair never even noticed.

  Hardy watches me, taking me in from head to toe. He notices. I can feel him noticing, every inch of my heels, every thread in my leg warmers, every curve beneath my leotard, every auburn wisp spilling out of the purple tie that’s keeping my hair in a ponytail and every shimmer of sparkle in my