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I rub my eyes with my hand, utterly humiliated. “Oh, Lord, do you think anyone else saw?”
Yvonne pops her bubblegum-colored bouffant over a filing cabinet. “It was hard to miss, honey.”
Not honey as in You Poor Misunderstood Thing. Yvonne might be my grandmother’s age, but there isn’t a maternal bone in her weedy former Rockette body; her honey is brash and laced with sarcasm.
I bury my face in my hands, fighting off panic, doing my best not to hyperventilate.
Brenda pats my back. “Look on the bright side, Tracey. You met a nice guy. Did you give him your number?”
“No.”
“Why the hell not?” Latisha demands.
“He didn’t ask.” Talk about humiliating. I add hastily, “And anyway, I don’t want him to call me. I just want to forget the whole thing.”
“Why?” Brenda asks. “I thought he was a good guy.”
“Hot, too,” Latisha says approvingly.
“He had tight buns,” Yvonne puts in.
Eeewww. Tight buns?
Like I said, she’s my grandmother’s age. That’s hip slang for her. But the phrase has me picturing some unappealing loser in snug-fitting beige polyester slacks—which, if nothing else, is enough to take the edge off the panic.
“Morning, Chief.” Mike pokes his head around the edge of my cube. “Ladies.”
They greet him and disperse, leaving me alone with my boss standing over me. My thoughts whirl back to the party.
“So I heard you met my roommate.”
“Hmm?” I reply absently, trying to remember whether Mike left early. I wring my icy hands in my lap. God, I hope so. Or could he have still been around while I was sucking face with Jack at the bar?
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