Intimacy

1

You can bring that boyfriend of yours. Or come alone. We love you, sweetie. Please come home.

Becks played her voice mail on repeat for the fifteenth time today. There were many emotions her mother's persuasive pleading evoked but confusion was a new one. She stared at the phone, frowning. Boyfriend? What boyfriend? Here she was, smack in the middle of a lengthy relationship drought, one she did not see ending anytime soon, especially when the men in her life were severely not her type, severely taken or--

"Rebecca, darling! I'm in desperate need of your skills."

Or they were Trent Markham.

Becks quickly clicked off her voicemail before Trent caught her moping over her mother's good intentions. The gleam in his eye boded ill for her hopes of getting out early enough for a quick wardrobe change for the evening. No, not today. She wouldn't be a doormat today.

"What do you need?" Oh, yes, not today, not a doormat whatsoever. Becks sighed at her own folly as a thick glossy folder slid in front of her.

"I am having a hell of a time with this formatting and if I don't have these mock ups pristine and perfect by tomorrow morning, Alexis is going to have my balls in a vice."

Her lips pursed as he spoke, his shocking baby blues (seriously, did they market that nail polish color?) not looking at her. Nope, they wandered, giving an appreciate glance of Wendy in the alluring pencil skirt as she sauntered by. An actual saunter. Did she paint that skirt on? Wendy returned the look with a wink. Good grief, couldn't they wait for the damn Holiday Party in five hours before they started making eyes at each other like horny teenagers. Not that Trent would ever give her a look like that, she internalized, biting her lip as she looked at her lap. The sight of her legs encased in ill fitting plain black trousers greeted her, which matched her equally plain loose eggshell blouse. Her mother's blouse, she realized, she was wearing her mother's blouse, hair frizzed from the walk from her apartment. Come to think of it, she hadn't even bothered with make up this morning. When had her appearance come to matter so little to her. Oh yes, that's right.

The part of her that had been slowly withering away, since that day three years ago. Another sigh filtered through her nose. She was too young to feel this old. Becks did her best to ignore Trent as she eyed the contents of his folder. He turned at her noise of distress.

"Uh, these need a lot of help, Trent, and the party--"

"I know, the party is only a few hours away, which is why I need your help," he said, jumping to his feet as if he couldn't escape fast enough. Which, she realized, he couldn't, because he intended to leave this steaming pile of shit in her lap.

"Now wait just a second--"

"Thanks, Rebecca, I owe you one!"

"Giant, rat bastard," Becks snarled, mostly under her breath as she clutched the desk for strength. That asshat passed the buck! Not like she couldn't do them. Every desk around her saw Trent pass them off to her. This office was full of harpies. Now it would be on her head if the mock ups were a mess, which they were, unless she sacrificed a virgin and swore her first born to fix them. She glared at the drafted ads, vowing to seek revenge on that jerkface if she had to take him down with her. Five years she'd worked at Callihan and Matthew's Ad Agency. Five years she'd maneuvered through inter office politics, snubbing, and other b.s., two of which included dealing the 'God's Gift to Woman' Idiot that was Trent Markham, interoffice transplant, and too handsome for his own good. She took a moment to muffle a scream of frustration with the palm of her hands and set about to work.

***

Becks swiped her hair out of her face, now several levels beyond rat's nest, from hours of swiping it with her fingers. Her eyes were tired and pinched as she blearily peered at the wall clock through the blue white haze of her monitor. Eleven at night, the holiday party well underway, probably winding down now and she missed it all. She sighed, rubbing the bridge of her nose as she finished her printouts. She was going to kill Trent, the rotten jerk. Her stomach gave a sad gurgle of protest. She'd missed lunch and dinner fixing his mess, her meager breakfast of a tube of gogurt so very far away.