Free Desk Jockey Jam by Ainslie Paton

percent genuine about now.
    “I don’t care if I’m
embarrassing you, Bree.  I don’t care if you hate me worse for this and never
speak to me again.”  He shrugged one shoulder.  “I need to know and I’m not
taking your polite handball for an answer.”
    There was no bluster in
him, no artifice, no being the big swinging dick.  She still couldn’t form a
coherent thought, but her hands shot out and closed over his.  His eyes went
down then back up to hers showing only confusion.  Then he seemed to realise
she was struggling and freed his hands to pour her a glass of water.  She
sipped, watching him, fascinated by him, while she figured out what to say to
give him the truth without giving her game away.

 
     
     
     
     
    8:        Contact
     
    He’d done it.  He’d said
it.  Got it out.  Got it all out, the falling on his sword thing, the damsel in
distress thing, and she looked like she was going to cry.  Fuck .  And on
top of that she wasn’t going to say anything.  Any minute now she’d start
looking out into the street and then she’d get up and leave him here, feeling
like he was stuck on a sandbar. 
    That moment where she’d
put her hands on his, tongue-tied and cornered, but finally getting where he
was coming from and not feeling she needed to go ninja on him.  Ah, that moment
alone, was worth the crisis of confidence he’d had over her. 
    Now he wanted to take back
twelve months of avoiding, ignoring and secretly ridiculing her.  He didn’t
know her.  He certainly didn’t understand her, but he no longer felt irritated
by her.  She wasn’t a snob, she was focussed and no nonsense, maybe a little
shy.  She wasn’t a bitch, that was just how he’d chosen to think of her to make
it easier to see her as a rival instead of a real person, and then it was a
perfect fit when his own ambitions were stalled.  But now he saw her.  She was
suddenly real to him not a cardboard cut-out villain.  She hated olives and
anchovies.  She had great shoes.  She was funny.  She was gutsy. 
    She didn’t hate him.
    But he had no idea what
she really thought of him and now for some reason, it mattered.
    “I, ah.  I don’t know what
to say, Ant.  I had no idea you were under the impression I was in a bad
situation.”
    He frowned.  She was going
to hedge, dodge, tell him bloody nothing.  But she’d called him Ant at least.  She
put her hand over one of his again and it was cool and light and he liked it. 
    “I’m not in any trouble.  No
one is hurting me.  I’m not even in a relationship.  I fall over.  It’s my own
fault.”
    “What?”  He barked that,
and of course she took her hand away.  The odd thing was he missed it. 
    “I’m not making an excuse,
I play a contact sport.”
    “You.”  Even to his own
stupid ears that rang with incredulity.
    She sighed and pushed back
into her seat.  “Now you’ve gone and spoiled it.” 
    And he had.  He’d done
that thing where he led with his bloody ego and didn’t pay proper attention.  Because
she looked too small, too soft, he’d taken that to be her whole story, like
he’d taken history to be Toni’s present and future.  “I’m sorry.  You don’t seem
the type.”
    “And what would that be?” 
She waved a waiter over and they ordered while the argument hung around on the
sidelines waiting for the all clear whistle.  If it wasn’t for Toni, he’d have
said more butch, but there was nothing un-girly about Toni, so that wasn’t it.
    “The aggressive type.” 
She was so tiny, but she’d gone for him across the table yesterday like she
didn’t know he was the tree and she was the twig. 
    “There are different types
of aggression.”
    “Sure.” 
    He barely got the word out
and she was all over him.  “But you don’t think I’ve got it in me to be
aggressive on the sports field?”
    All that bewildered
quality about her was rubbing off; the serrated edge was back in her voice. 
Yeah,