The tightness in my chest constricted, now vacillating between annoyance and anxiety, and I fell into my office chair. I attempted to sooth it away by clearing my mind, staring out the window, allowing myself to drift on white, puffy clouds visible in the distance.
For the first time in recent memory I successfully endeavored to sit and be still, thinking about nothing at all. I sky-watched until my eyes felt dry from staring.
At some indeterminable time later, the sound of laughter and normal office conversation pulled me out of my trance. I blinked, rubbed my closed lids, and decided to make an honorable attempt at getting work done. I didn’t think about carpet or Quinn or Jem or Olivia. Instead, I clung to the impersonal numbness of my task list.
Thus, ignoring the stack of memos and printed reports on my desk, I lost myself to spreadsheets and glorious pivot tables; to requirements documents and billing-software workflows. The tension around my lungs eased with every passing hour, with deeper emersion into numbers and visio swim lane charts.
The sound of my office door closing abruptly brought my attention back to the present and to the man who’d just entered.
I blinked. I gaped. I stood.
Simmering warmth slid from my stomach to the tips of my ears, inexplicably relaxing any remaining tightness in my chest like a salve, as I registered that Quinn was standing in front of the closed door. He was smiling in that odd, quiet way of his, not with any perceivable curve of his mouth but rather with a subtle glint in his eyes and lift of his chin.
My resultant, very obvious, grin at his presence couldn’t be helped any more than I could catch those errant teeth in my dream. I loved that he was wearing faded blue jeans and a long sleeve black shirt. He hadn’t shaved since I last saw him.
“Hi.”
“Hi.” I auto-responded, spreadsheets and pivot tables forgotten.
He crossed to me and gave me a quick, soft kiss before I could discern or properly appreciate his intention. Immediately he straightened and held a paper bag between us. It was yellow and grease stained; black writing spelled out ‘Al’s Beef.’
“I have Italian beef and French fries.”
I pulled my attention from the bag and met his narrowed blue gaze. Again, a sincere automatic smile further opened my features to him. “You brought me Al’s Beef for breakfast?”
His lips pulled to the side, his eyes moving between mine, and he turned his head just slightly, “No, I brought you lunch. It’s almost three.”
My mouth opened and I glanced at the watch on my wrist. It was, indeed, almost 3pm.
“Oh my gosh.”
Quinn placed the bag of food on the desk and started distributing its contents: sandwich and fries for me; sandwich and fries for him. He even pulled out two green food baskets, presumably so that we could enjoy an authentic Al’s Beef dine-in experience within the comfort of my office.
“Sit.” He motioned to my chair as he claimed the seat on the other side of my desk.
I obeyed but didn’t immediately unwrap my food, instead opted to watch him, until my stomach grumbled. It, presumably, just now realizing that I hadn’t eaten all day, swiftly demanded my attention. The smell of fries and roast beef made my mouth water.
Mimicking his movements I dumped my fries into the basket and pulled the paper away from the Italian beef, revealing a deliciously soggy sandwich. He was already eating, the sandwich disappearing by fourths with each bite. He seemed so completely at ease, as though his appearance at the office, bringing me lunch, were an everyday occurrence.
As though it were expected.
His closing the door for privacy, the swift kiss, bringing lunch; it was something that people who were dating did. I knew this. I used to date someone. But with Quinn everything felt meaningful in a way it never did with Jon.
I picked up my sandwich and lifted it to my mouth but didn’t take a bite.
I was too busy noticing things about him that I couldn’t recall caring to notice about anyone else. I was acutely aware of Quinn’s movements; of the placement of his hands on the sandwich; his nonchalant, carefree mood; how he was dressed and the amount of skin exposed; the length of his hair. The number of details felt overwhelming but I was greedy for specifics, greedy to know and memorize everything about him.
I felt like a kettle set to boil; any minute I was going to steam up from all the details and start screaming.
I blurted, “I’m not really sure how to do this.” I abruptly dropped the sandwich into the basket and leaned backwards in my chair.
Quinn waited until he finished chewing to respond; his eyes moved from me to the sandwich, “Do what?”
“Be the girl you’re dating.”
His mouth curved upward in a trace of a smile. “Do you want a handbook for that too? Because I’d like to be involved in sketching the diagrams.”