EXCEPTional

Ch. 12 (Bridget)

*Bridget*

Sheila was going to explode when I told her Chance texted me. I would have liked to have kept this fact a secret, but I had given up long ago with keeping things from her. She had this uncanny ability to know when something happened, so even if I kept this to myself, she'd find out somehow. So I decided, right then and there as I stared at an article with my phone in my lap, that I would tell Sheila that Chance texted me once I got home.

I hadn't told her yesterday that I'd given Chance my number, because I hadn't been expecting him to contact me so soon. I thought, maybe, he'd call me as I packed up to let me know he was waiting for me in the lobby, just to irritate me. But he didn't. Instead, he texted to tell me I had a Chance-free evening.

He hadn't said it quite like that, of course, but that was how I read it. I was relieved that I could return to normalcy, even if it was just for today. Who knew what tomorrow would bring?

It was finally the weekend tomorrow. I could take a quick break from work. From the boring articles that were slowly killing me with their droll. And most importantly, from my nagging coworkers who had an infinite supply of questions about Chance Olson.

I didn't even know you could have that many questions about someone. "Does Chance sing when he drives?" "What's Chance's favorite band?" "How many famous places has Chance Olson been to?" Seriously, how many times during the day did I have to hear his name?

My eyes drifted to the phone in my lap. We had stopped texting over an hour ago, but I didn't know if he'd send me another surprise text.

It was stupid, really, to even care. So Chance sent me a text. So what? It was the same egotistical shit that always spewed from his mouth, just typed instead. Maybe it was the sheer fact that he contacted me in the first place. It was so unexpected that I had to check to see if it actually happened in the first place.

In high school, we'd had each other's numbers (necessary when my mom started bagging on me that I needed to call him more often). But as soon as he began professionally modeling, his number changed. (I had deleted it by that point, figuring we'd never see each other again.) And by my junior year of college, my phone was so old and beat up, the keypad didn't work and it constantly dropped calls. So I signed my own contract, to stop mooching off my dad, and also got a new number. Now, Chance and I both had smartphones (touchscreen was a vital transition I forced myself to make).

While I hated to admit it, texting Chance had been fun. Mostly, it distracted me from toppling over to the land of the crazies, but it was also entertaining. It was our usual exchange, except I didn't have to stare at his face.

I kind of wanted to text him again, just so he could save me from these drab articles in front of me. Seriously, chaperoning a family of ducks across a busy street isn't exactly an Indiana Jones adventure, but you can at least pretend it is.

Sighing, I leaned back in my chair, head tipping back to rest on top of the headrest. My eyes closed for a moment, tired from reading words that could lull anyone to sleep.

Because I knew sleeping on the job would get me into trouble, I shook my head, opened my eyes, and stood up. I needed coffee if I was going to make it through the day, so I stuffed my phone in my pocket and marched down to the break room.

Even if everyone was afraid of going to the break room because there was the possibility of running into Cranky Boss Lady, I didn't care. She couldn't fire us because we got thirsty. Now, if we spent all our time in there, I could see that becoming a problem. But a quick five minutes away from our desks wasn't going to get us fired.