CAITLIN
Leo: The stars are aligning! Enjoy new experiences, but don't let romance distract you from matters of the wallet. Stay the course and you will reap the rewards.
It seems absurd that after a night like that, I have to show up for work the next morning, like I don't have better things to do.
Naked, hot, orgasmic things.
But the way things are at the Gazette right now, neither Bea or I can afford to take a sex day. Unfortunately.
"See you at the office?" she asks, leaning over to kiss me goodbye.
"I'm right behind you," I promise. With a few detours first. I can't exactly show up in my grubby gardening attire from yesterday, but there's no more time to hoof it all the way back to my apartment to change, either, so I swing by the Gap for a change of clothes instead. "I'll wear them out," I tell the saleswoman, who quirks one knowing eyebrow but doesn't comment either way. I had sex with my boss, I barely keep myself from blurting. Mind-blowing, toe-curling, World Series kind of sex.
The clerk gazes at me boredly across the counter. "Receipt printed or emailed?" is all she asks.
I stop for coffee and a bagel at my usual place around the corner from the Gazette building—ice cream and potato chip smorgasbord notwithstanding, I'm starving after last night's enthusiastic workout. I'm sure the headline is written all over my face—breaking: local woman spends hot night with billionaire boss—but I manage to keep my cool through our morning staff meeting, chatting with Jet and catching up on the latest misadventure of Den's foulmouthed pet parrot, Walter Cronkite. "Nananakot lagi mga kapitbahay ko to call animal control," she says mournfully. "Tinatry kong turuan s'ya ng poetry instead, pero ang naaalala n'ya lang ay Eminem lyrics."
I'm doing such a good job of acting interested in anything besides the amazingly hot sex I had not twelve hours ago that I almost miss Bea when she steps off the elevator. She looks absolutely freaking edible in dark jeans and a smartly tailored button down that I immediately imagine tearing right off her shoulders. "Morning, folks," she calls easily, lifting a hand in greeting before heading toward her office. "Kumusta weekend n'yo?"
She does her Monday-morning rounds, stopping to talk to everyone from the head of the Business desk to the lowliest fact-checker, nodding sympathetically as Den repeats the sad ballad of Walter Cronkite, aka the Real Slim Shady. Bea's a good listener, I notice, sincerely interested in my coworkers' editorial thoughts as well as their personal lives, and I can feel them warming to her in spite of themselves. It's hard not to like a girl who drops everything to Google "tropical bird behavior modification techniques," on her phone, even if she does hold the fate of your entire career in her hands.
"Oh, hey, Caitlin," she calls as she heads for her office, cool as the other side of the pillow in the middle of the night. "Do you have a minute?"
"Sure thing," I call back, trying to sound equally chill. Still, by the time I shut her door behind me, I can't keep the goofy grin off my face. "What's up boss?"
Bea's gaze flicks quickly up and down my body, taking in my early-morning costume change. The clothes I picked up are simple, just jeans and lightweight cotton sweater with navy and white sailor stripes—but still, I can tell she's having the same kind of X-rated thoughts I've been entertaining all morning. "Um," she says shaking her head as if to clear it. "We should probably set some ground rules, right?"
I nod seriously. "I completely agree."
"So—"
"No flirting in the office," I say, ticking the list off on my fingers. "No touching."
