If there's one thing I hate, it's crying on the subway.

So I don't.

I mean, one, I hate being loud or talking or existing on the subway, so crying? And ruining my scanty, shoddily-applied makeup? Nooo thank you.

But the act of not crying on the subway hasn't done anything to eradicate the tears continuing to well (who even came up with "well" as a verb?), so my eyes are still brimming with hot, salty reminders of Gina's sighs, her squints, her words.

I hope we can still be friends.

How on earth am I supposed to take that?

I make it to Rosalind's apartment, somehow. I feel like I'm stumbling about in a semi-drunken haze, unable to figure out just which way is up.

I could always quit, y'know.

Seriously, quitting suddenly sounds quite appealing. Why doesn't everyone just give up and quit their jobs? I'm about to. I don't think anyone would fault me for that. Except for, like, Gina, probably. Not that that matters anymore.

The ride up to Rosalind's penthouse already feels degrading, somehow. And because it's a suitable (yet just as humiliating) distraction, I let myself lean into freaking out about yesterday.

Why am I here? Why is this my job? Why didn't Rosalind fire me after my disastrous performance yesterday? And why am I already so goddamn sweaty? It's only nine a.m. I should not be this sweaty.

I take a deep breath, blink away any remaining threats of tears, and wipe my beady sweatstache away with the back of my hand before typing in the code to unlock Rosalind's elevator door.

Here it goes.

What I'm greeted by is surprisingly ... surprising.

"IT'S A FUCKING CUP OF COFFEE," Rosalind shouts from the kitchen, located immediately to my left. "YOU WERE DESIGNED FOR THIS. YOU WERE MADE TO COFFEE. COFFEE FOR ME."

I stand in front of the open elevator doors, more than a little slack-jawed at the sight before me. There stands Rosalind, her hair in a half-fallen messy bun, her eyebags and acne scars on full display, in a rather paltry set of cornflower blue pajamas.

Her hands are on top of a Keurig, one which she may or may not be interrogating or shaking money off or something. I'm not too sure yet.

"Why did I fucking BUY you if you're not going to FUCKING WORK?" She—quite violently—shakes the Keurig again, one of those cute little forest green ones I like to stare longingly at at Target. The ceramic mug sitting below the little coffee spout wobbles and nearly tips over, but somehow remains upright.

Ugh, fuck. Quitting just sounds so nice.

"Um, hi, Ms. Lindbergh," I try to say. It comes out weak, breathy, and maybe slightly strangled-sounding. I'm relieved when she doesn't seem to hear it. I clear my throat and try again. "Morning, Ms. Lindbergh."

When I tell you she jumps in surprise, know that "jumps" is an understatement.

She practically catapults her way up to the ceiling, accompanied by this little ear-splitting shriek of fear. It shouldn't be cute, but it is. Her eyebrows are raised as high as they can possibly go; her mouth is agape.

"Oh my god," she says, eyes squinted and mouth scrunched up in a preemptive grimace. "You heard that?"

I almost lie and ask her what she's talking about, but I can't make myself do it. Lying—especially after yesterday—doesn't feel like the wisest idea, even if it is to spare her feelings.

"It could have been a lot worse. Like, you could have—" NOPE. I cut myself off before I say something stupid. I can't do this.

Rosalind leans against the counter, her composure suddenly regained, her expression almost unbelievably cool. I try not to notice how nicely the light blue satin of her PJs falls perfectly around her curves, showcasing smooth, even skin, and a tantalizing amount of toned muscle.

"I could have what?" she asks. I ... am I trembling? No. Nope. No. It's too early for this shit. She's got her "don't fuck with me" face on, and I can't with her. "Do go on, Marcie."

Fuck. Fuck. Um. Why do I feel like I've had wet dreams that started this way? Like, this exact way.

"Um, I.... I don't know."

"Hm." She quirks an eyebrow. "Disappointing. I was so looking forward to hearing what you had to say. Let me know if it comes to mind."

Fuck. "Um, yes, will.... will do."

She tugs down the bottom of her pajama top, which had crept up slightly above the hem of her pants. The material is shiny, probably cool to the touch, likely an almost buttery kind of silky.

Then Rosalind tucks a dark, wavy lock of hair—freed from her messy bun—behind her ear. If I didn't know any better, I'd say it was an almost self-conscious action. I'm probably imagining it though, because the next second, she's turned around, back to glaring at her Keurig.

"I think I broke it," she mumbles. I don't know why it's so reminiscent of a bummed-out toddler, but, inexplicably, it is. She crosses one arm across her stomach, using it to prop up her elbow as she strikes a pose and death-stares. "And I just got it, too."

Me and Gina do have a Keurig at home. Well. Gina has a Keurig. It's the one she bought brand new our freshman year of college, so I've had plenty of experience with malfunctioning coffee makers. "Want me to give it a go?" I offer.

Rosalind flashes me a relieved smile. "Would you?"

"Yeah, I mean, like, I'm no Keurig whisperer, but I just might know my way around a broken machine." Gina always makes me fix things around the house. I don't mind it, though. Makes me feel kinda butch. It's nice.

It was nice.

Rosalind takes a step back. "Well then. By all means." And she crosses her arms, leaning against the counter and giving me this weirdly challenging stare. Which, like, stop. Hot, ugh, fuck, ugh.

I try not to gulp too loud and shuffle awkwardly to the Keurig. I'm trying my best to avoid eye contact with Rosalind, but the smell of her perfume is surprisingly all-encompassing. I had assumed it was just a perfume, but maybe she just smells like this? Like, naturally? Crazy. Absolutely whack.

I pop the Keurig top open and immediately, I can tell what her problem is.

"Um, Ms. Lindbergh?"

"Yes, Marcie?"

The sound of her saying my name—all sultry and womanly and Rosalind Lindberghy—sends shivers racing up my spine. I try not to gulp. "There.... There's no K-Pod in here."

There's a beat of awkward silence. Then: "...Oh."

I finally work up the courage to sneak a peek over at her. Her expression has gone slack, her eyes wide in surprise. Her irises don't look as deep a shade of brown as they did yesterday.

Maybe it's the absence of that smoky eye look she'd had on, or maybe it's that the kitchen lights are brighter than the lights in the laundry room, but today, Rosalind's eyes are like dark honey instead of chocolate. I force myself to look away.

Seriously though, the audacity in looking that good with a bare face.

"I know they're around here somewhere," Rosalind says, turning and opening up cupboard after cupboard.

It's a modernist kitchen, with a light marble counter and sleek white IKEA cabinets that reflect the natural light from the massive floor-to-ceiling window on the opposite side of the living room.

She opens cabinet after cabinet, and even though she's tall, she's still on tiptoe; it raises her shirt once again, revealing that smooth, toned stomach. Her pants are low-waisted, and I can see the soft curves of her hip bones as they dip down beneath the waistline.

I turn away, my cheeks hot.

Stop thinking your boss is hot, stop thinking your boss is hot, stop thinking—-

"Godammit," she says, "I could have sworn I had K-Cups. Where did they go?"

I glance back to the Keurig and spot a Lazy-Susan style rack full of K-Cups right next to it. "Um, is this what you were looking for?"

Rosalind hops back, as if surprised, and nearly bumps into me as she leans backward to see what I'm looking at. She sighs. "Well. Fuck me then."

I blink. "Um—"

"No, wait, oh my god I am so sorry, I'm literally—wow. If I had an HR department, they'd—nope, I'm so sorry. Not appropriate."

"No, no, no," I blurt. "You're all good. Don't worry about it. I–I don't mind. It's just an expression." I'm pretty sure Rosalind saying "fuck me" is going to live in my head rent-free for the rest of forever, and that is definitely fine.

She rubs her temples slowly, groaning. "I'm so sorry. I seriously need my coffee."

"Wowww. You're such a millennial," I joke, then immediately regret it.

Just, fuck, fuck, fuck. Why do I do this? Why can't I shut my fucking mouth for once, huh? I'm not going to stop until I fuck this up. She's literally going to fire me. I am literally so annoying.

We're. Not. Friends.

But Rosalind doesn't seem offended. Instead, she cracks a small smile, and I hate myself for lingering on the soft, playful curve of her lips. "Sorry, am I showing my age right now?"

"It's okay. At your age, you were bound to slip up eventually."

"Wow. At my age?"

NO BAD WHY OH FUCK NO. Why do I do this?

I stand there with my mouth hanging open, and Rosalind's small smile cracks open into a wide grin. And just like that, I swear, I can't breathe.

"Cat got your tongue?" she asks, cocking her head.

"I...." Yes. Yep. Cat evidently has got my tongue, because I can't even formulate a thought past "I," apparently.

She bites her lip for just a moment, and I have to remind myself for the fiftieth time in five minutes that this is my boss.

"I don't even know why I'm bothering with this piece of shit," she says, side-eyeing the Keurig. When her gaze flits back to me, I hate how bare I feel before her. Somehow, it's as if my very existence is an embarrassment. I don't necessarily want to feel that way, but when standing next to Rosalind, I think it's an easy point to argue in favor of.

"Anyways," she says, turning her gaze back to me, "I'm seriously glad to have you back."

I blink. Yesterday. Fuuuuck. I'd wanted to apologize before she brought it up. Part of my Groveling Initiative. "About that, Ms. Lindbergh, I—"

"Call me Roz," she says, waving me off with her hand. "And, seriously. Don't even worry about it. I appreciate dynamic introductions. And that was one for sure."

Something not unlike relief (but with an adorable twinge of guilt, yay!) floods my chest. "Are you sure?"

"Mmhmm." Her smile feels coy, but it's just her smile. "Hopefully with that out of the way, you don't have to worry about being casual with me. Because all this"—she flaps her hand out in the air, yet somehow makes it graceful—"'Ms. Lindbergh' business really isn't going to do it for me."

Casual. Do it for me. Do it.

I can't. I couldn't with yesterday, and I can't with today, either.

"So, tell me a little bit about yourself." Rosalind—Roz? Is Roz hot? Roz might be hot. I don't know, I think my brain is going haywire. Roz is still leaning against that counter like that, with her fucking hair and her fucking eyes and her fucking mouth and oh my god how was someone this perfect even created in the first place?

I'm so busy silently lusting over her (fucking hell, that sounds so bad) that it takes me a moment to even realize she's asked me a question. And when I try to answer, my throat is scratchy and tight. "I, um, I read a lot." Your books.

"Riiight, right. Professor Kestler sent me a paper you wrote on one of my books when she recommended you."

I blanch. Not the All Hail Mary paper. I hated that paper.

"Oh ... yeah," I say, nodding. My insides are on fire. I am going to combust. Spontaneously. "That's a pretty old paper."

Roz's smile is disgustingly reassuring. "Well, I'm glad you liked it."

"I'm...." I almost say, "I'm glad you liked it," but she didn't say if she liked the paper or not. Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. So I push down the need to vomit and force a smile. "It's probably my favorite book of all time."

"Well, I'd never complain about that." And then, oh god, she winks. She fucking winks.

Like, holy forking shirtballs, am I queer.

Without warning, Roz sighs. It's breathy and pensive and utterly lovely. "Okay, well, I need to go get ready to meet with my agent. If you want some coffee now, feel free to help yourself. I'd offer to fix you up a cup, but I'm clearly useless in the at-home coffee department. But yeah, we can just grab something there."

This doesn't process immediately. "We." "Agent." "Meet." But when it does, I manage a slow blink and an even slower, "Sure," and Roz smiles once before quickly disappearing down the hallway to her bedroom, her dark curls bouncing lightly behind her as I watch her go.

Just, fuck. "We." "Agent." "Meet."

I didn't want it to happen like this.