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Her foul mood starts when she wakes up late and has to rush to get ready.
"You couldn't have woken me up sooner?" she yells down the hall when she stomps to the bathroom, jumping into the shower, not really looking for a response. She's just irritated, and needs to let the man in her kitchen know she didn't wake up happy.
And after she blow-dries her hair and pins it back, she only just realizes she forgot to shave her legs, and has to storm back into the shower to finish the job, cutting herself three times in the process. So she can't even wear the skirt she had planned to wear - the new, charcoal pencil skirt, paired with the jet-black turtleneck and pumps. The skirt she had bought specifically for this job interview - the skirt that made her legs look good in a modest way. The skirt that made her feel professional and important. The skirt that Derek whistled at when she modelled it for him last week, and the same skirt she had dry cleaned the instant it was removed from her body.
She can't even wear it now - unless she wants to show off the Hello Kitty band aids adorning her ankles and calves. Yes, Hello Kitty.
Originally, the branded bandages had been a joke. She had sent Derek to the store to pick up the groceries, and he had decided regular bandages were not acceptable. He bought two packs - one for himself, and one for her, and he refused to let her touch the Scooby Doo band aids that he kept on his shelf in the medicine cabinet. And she kept forgetting to pick up another plain package whenever she took a visit to the pharmacy.
So, of course, she now blames Derek that she can't wear her skirt.
There's a chance that her prospective employer might have the same twisted sense of humour that Derek possesses, but she doesn't want to risk the humiliation and instead opts for a black pair of slacks. But she's not happy about it. And she groans loudly.
They aren't ironed, and the crease is slightly off, but she's running late already and can't do anything about it. And it gets even worse. She pulls the pants on, one leg at a time, and realizes her top is a slightly different shade of black than the slacks, and has to pull the knit off, ruining her hair, and throw on a grey cashmere sweater.
So, at least that's one pro to a growing list of cons.
She has to skip breakfast entirely, and rushes past the kitchen, tripping over the carpet as she hurriedly pulls on her heels.
"Slow down, you're going to hurt yourself."
The warning angers her even more. She doesn't need to be told what to do, thank you very much, and she growls primitively at Derek as he rounds the corner and leans against the wall, holding up her travel mug - her travel mug that she never lets him use. And he takes a long sip out of it before passing it off to her. Which, by the way, doesn't aid in calming her down.
"What happened to the skirt?" he asks, furling his previously relaxed eyebrows.
She huffs. "I changed my mind."
He shakes his head, and clicks his tongue. "That's a shame," he breathes, and his eyes trail over her body, shamelessly checking her out in her impromptu wardrobe change. "Hopefully Mr. Big-Wig-Lawyer has a thing for cashmere," he quips. "One look at that skirt, and you definitely would have gotten the job."
And she knows, in the back of her mind, that he is just joking, but the sexist comment kind of grates on her, and she sneers at him. "Give me my coffee," she demands, and swipes the silver tumbler from his hand, and sighs when she takes a sip. "It's too sweet. Why can't you ever get it right? I don't like a full teaspoon. Can't you just get it through your head?"
Lifting a hand in surrender, Derek rolls his eyes and steps closer. "Sorry for trying to be helpful. Next time I try to do something for you, remind me that it isn't worth the effort."
If she were thinking clearly - if she weren't so stressed - she would probably be very sympathetic to his jeer, because she is, after all, being quite rude to him while he has done something quite sweet - fixing her coffee, and gathering her things for her and placing them by the door. But her rational mind is clouded with anger and worry, and she has no time to slow down and apologize.
His hand brushes over her elbow, and she knows he is leaning in to kiss her like he always does when they part, but she yanks herself away and glares at him.
He inhales. "Boyfriend: Bad," he mutters. "Got it." And he walks away, leaning back against the wall he had been occupying beforehand. "Good luck on your interview."
Blowing a stray hair from her eye, she only shrugs and lets out an irritated scowl. "Don't pretend that you're supportive."
He doesn't say anything in response, and she feels a tad remorseful when she looks at him one more time before she turns to leave. He frowns, and his head tilts back until it rests against the drywall behind him, dejected.
She wants to slow down and say sorry - say something nice, like "thank you for making my coffee and trying to make it the way I like," - but she also wants to punch him in the balls for no reason other than the fact she is running late, and he is still in his pyjamas.
She doesn't do either of those things. She just slams the door shut and runs out of the building, hoping she can make it to the law firm on time.
/
The interview doesn't go well. She knows she has no one to blame but herself for her curt answers and blunt attitude.
In the back of her mind, she is over analyzing the entire morning. She thinks about how she would feel more confident if she hadn't had to change her clothes, and if she hadn't had to drink sweet coffee, and if she hadn't had to run three red lights in order to arrive on schedule. And she feels even worse, now that she is expecting a few speeding tickets in the mail.
She's not explicitly rude to the interviewer. She's just off her game. She can't focus on what he's asking her, because her mind keeps drifting back to the way she had snapped at Derek while leaving the house - the way she had criticized his barista-skills, and the way she had refused to let him kiss her. And the way she had accused him of being unsupportive.
God, she is an idiot.
How in the word could she be so inconsiderate? Of course he's supportive. Of course he wants her to get this job as much as she does. He's the best damn boyfriend she could ever ask for, and she had just insulted him in the biggest way possible.
"Sorry, could you repeat that?" she stammers, shifting in her chair, sitting up straighter, trying to gain composure.
"What would you say is the most prominent asset that you could offer the firm?"
That stumps her. Because at the moment, she feels like a piece of shit, and how is she supposed to promote herself while all she wants to do is scream and blow up and cry and run back home and ask for forgiveness?
"Miss McDonald?"
She blinks. "I'm sorry," she mutters.
"Excuse me?"
She raises from her chair. "I can't do this."
The man across from her furls his eyebrows.
And she sighs. "I'm terribly sorry to do this, but I can't continue this interview," she announces, and grabs her bag from the seat. "Don't get me wrong, I love this firm. You stand for everything I believe in, and I'd give anything to work here, but I don't feel like I'm in the right mindset to conduct myself properly," she admits.
What is she saying? She's waited months for an interview here - and now she is blowing every chance of working at this firm, ever.
Her interviewer leans back in his chair and stares at her. "I'm very sorry to hear that."
She lets out a breath she has been holding all morning. "I wish I wasn't so preoccupied. But I hurt someone that I love very dearly this morning, and I need to go make things right." She stretches out her hand. "It was a pleasure to meet you. I apologize for wasting your time."
And she turns to leave before anything else is said. Before she can humiliate herself any further, she exits the office and marches down the long hall, and wipes a dispirited tear from her cheek.
/
And when she gets back home, she throws her bag on the front bench and kicks off her shoes. They tumble disgracefully over the light-monochrome carpet, but she doesn't care. She walks past the living room when she sees that it is vacant, and she does the same to the kitchen.
He's in the bedroom.
Damn, she's a horrible person.
She stands in the doorway in utter silence, watching him.
He's leaning over the bed, tucking in the sheets, pulling them taught, and turning down the cover neatly just the way she likes the bed to be made. And he's fluffing the pillows, and as he crosses to the other side of the bed, she notices that the laundry is done and put away.
He sees her out of the corner of his eye and jumps at first.
"Jesus Christ," he yelps, and then sucks in his cheeks. "God, Case, don't scare me like that."
She steps into the room. "You made the bed," she points out, obviously.
He rolls his eyes. "Yeah, well, I thought maybe I could fix it."
"Hmm?"
"It seemed defective this morning. Because there has to be more to that whole scene before you left than just waking up on the wrong side," he jokes, but it's more pointed than playful.
She grits her teeth. He's unbelievable sometimes. Even when he's being sweet, he's also being a big pain in the ass.
"Thanks for that," she mumbles, and enters, tapping her fingers over her thigh.
His hands slip into his pockets. "So?"
"I didn't get the job," she says sadly.
And his lips curl downward, in sympathy. "They don't know what they're missing."
She shakes her head. "They didn't really reject me. I left before the interview really started."
That piques his interest. "What? Why?" He sounds almost incredulous - disbelieving.
She wishes she could take a picture of his expression, full of bewildered confusion. Her shoulders lift to her ears. "I couldn't think straight. I felt bad about what I said to you."
He scoffs. "Well that was dumb," he retorts, and she's ready to get mad at him again, but he cuts her off before she can raise her voice to him again. "Casey, don't worry about me. I know you didn't mean it. I know you're under stress. It's okay if you take it out on me. I don't mind."
"Derek-"
"Seriously, Case. I understand. You were just frustrated that I forgot to wake you. And I'm a moron and can't make coffee the right way." His hand runs through his hair, distracted. "I'm sorry you felt like you needed to come back."
"You're sorry?" she responds, her head beginning to shake. "I'm the one who needs to apologize. I totally snapped at you, and I had no right. I overslept. It's not your fault."
"Don't apologize for that."
"Well, I'm still sorry for getting mad at you."
"You had every right to."
"No I didn't."
"Yeah, you did."
"Stop it! I'm a jerk, okay?" she shouts, taking a step further into the room. "Just let me say sorry, you idiot. Because if you don't let me apologize then I'm just going to blame you for ruining my future." She feels fire rising in her throat.
He sighs. "Fine. You're a jerk. Happy?"
And she nods. "Yes." She locks her eyes onto him, and chews on her tongue. She feels a little bit triumphant, and she knows it's not a healthy feeling. It's not healthy to feel triumphant after throwing herself under the bus.
And after she swallows and looks away from him, he continues to study her.
"You finished the laundry," she adds, pointing to the organized closet.
"Yeah, well, I thought I would help out more around here."
"Thanks."
"Don't mention it." He lifts his eyebrows at her when she opens her mouth to speak. "Seriously, don't mention it. I don't want a repeat of this morning's events."
That makes her smirk a little bit. "I make no promises."
And once he's smiling, too, his hands pull out of his pockets as he looks down at her legs. "So tell me the story why you couldn't wear that skirt," he demands, moving on.
Casey smirks. "You and your damn band aids," she remarks, and lifts her pant leg to reveal an image of Hello Kitty on her ankle. "I couldn't show up to the interview with cartoon characters all over me."
And he breaks into a wide grin. "I see." He takes a step closer, still looking down at her now-exposed ankles. "I still stand by my word," he adds. "It is a shame you're not wearing that skirt." His arms reach out to her, wrapping around her waist and pull her body flush against his.
She feels a flush of pink run over her cheeks, and jolts of electricity run through her body when his hands lay flat against her back. "I can put it on if you like. That is, if you don't mind Hello Kitty staring at you from many different angles."
That's when he sucks in a breath. "Oh, that will only make it better."
She wants to roll her eyes, but she's too amused. "Only you could turn Hello Kitty into a sexual experience."
He rubs the back of his neck as she walks over to the closet and pulls out the dark fabric, and begins to change from the slacks to the tight pencil skirt. She loves the way he tries to avert his eyes, but he can't seem to stop himself from watching.
"Trust me," he says, and saunters toward her as she zips up the skirt. "I'm not the first one."
He drags her into his body the moment her hands are finished their task, and he holds her tight.
"I'm disappointed," she sighs. "You barely even looked at the skirt."
"There's plenty of time," he assures, as his hands rest against her back, gliding low over her curves, and gripping onto her thighs. "Now that you've cleared your schedule."
She can feel him smirk as his lips press against her neck, and his hands travel shamelessly over the material.
"Why don't you and I," he starts, his voice low and hoarse, and slightly muffled in her hair, "go out for lunch, at that expensive place you like so much downtown?"
Her eyes light up. "Suzette's Bistro?" she asks happily.
He nods. "Yeah."
But her eyebrows furl. "We can't."
"Why not?"
Her chest heaves against his, and she steps away, disappointed. "You need to make a reservation nearly a week in advance. It's always booked solid."
That's when he smirks again and shrugs. "Good thing I thought in advance, huh?" he responds, hands travelling into his pockets as he raises his eyebrows at her.
She pivots quickly to see him. "What?"
"I called last week when you scheduled the interview," he admits, like it's no big deal. "Although, I thought it was going to be a celebratory lunch, not a conciliatory one."
"Derek!" She rushes forward, not sure whether to be happy or slap him for that comment. She decides to be joyful, because her heart is quickly melting right out of her body.
He catches her in his arms as she kisses him ardently, chuckling against her lips. He stops as her hands begin to wander, effortlessly fumbling with his belt buckle.
Lacing his fingers through hers, he peels her body off his. "We don't have time before our reservation," he scolds, and she can see the desperation in his eyes.
The side of her mouth curls upward. "Okay." And she raises an eyebrow when she gestures to the slight bulge under his jeans. "Just thought we could deal with that before we go out in public."
Rolling his eyes, he turns away, and she watches his body heave with a sigh.
"Trust me," he mutters, reaching into the closet to grab a nice shirt to change into. "Even if we 'dealt with it'," he repeats, air quotes accompanied, "the problem would just come back as soon as you put that skirt back on."
She bites her lip as she watches him lift his t-shirt over his head. Even if he weren't in such great shape, she'd still be attracted to him, but that's not even a factor here. His body is toned from years of hockey and going to the gym, and she tends to lose it whenever she sees him like this.
He pulls his arms through his (recently ironed) collared shirt, but before he even has the chance to button it up, she's all over him again, hands on his chest, sliding upward and gripping onto his shoulders.
"Case," he complains.
"When is that reservation?"
"In thirty minutes." She smirks, but he shakes his head and points a finger toward her. "No!"
"Why not?" Her bottom lip threatens a pout.
"Because it's never just quick sex with you," he rebukes.
She shrugs. "I can hurry up."
"That's not how it works, and you know it."
"Come on, Derek," she begs, and slightly wonders how it's come to this: her begging him for sex, and not the other way around.
"We're not missing this reservation."
"We won't."
"Yeah, we will."
She rolls her eyes. "They hold the reservation for a while if we're late," she reminds.
"But it takes twenty minutes to get there," he reminds. "Casey-"
"-Derek." She folds her hands together. "Please?" And she finally pouts. "You know I had a bad morning. This would make me feel better."
She can see his defeat. His eyes roll languidly to the side, and his lips push together, but she also sees that sparkle in his eye that let's her know she's about to get laid.
So she claps her hands and grabs his hand and drags him to the bed. "I promise to be quick," she says, grabbing at his belt again and expertly loosening it. "And to save time, we don't even have to get undressed," she suggests, hiking up her skirt as she pulls him down onto the bed with her.
He grabs her waist, and before she knows it, he's complying to her wishes, and putting those hands to good work. "If we miss our reservation because of this," he starts, "I'm going to hold a grudge."
She only smiles. "Fine by me."
"You're so annoying."
/
They don't miss their reservation, although, they do arrive ten minutes late. Because - of course - Derek is always right, and he knows her own body better than she even knows herself.
"You don't have to rub it in," she sneers, as she sits down, and he helps her push in her chair.
"You're just pissed that I was right," he responds, and accepts the menu from the waitress as he sits.
She rolls her eyes and digs her nose into her menu, rubbing her leg against his once he makes contact with her under the table.
"Thank you," she smiles, and puts her menu to the side when she's decided what she wants.
He lifts an eyebrow at her.
"Thanks for thinking about this," she elaborates. "You're really an amazing boyfriend."
"Don't you forget it," he responds, and smirks at her, too.
"I feel so stupid about what I said this morning."
"I already told you, I'm over it."
"I can't believe I said you're unsupportive."
"It doesn't matter. I already agreed you're a jerk. Can we move on now?"
They share a smile, but she's distracted when her phone rings in her purse. And normally she doesn't answer the phone while on a date with Derek, but he gestures over to her purse.
"You should check that."
She nods and digs it out of its pocket. "Oh my God," she says, "it's the firm!"
He smirks. "Answer it."
She shakes her head. "I can't!"
Widening his eyes in disbelief, he urges her after it continues to ring. "Yes, yes you can," he supports. "They're probably still interested in you. They wouldn't call you if they don't like you."
"What do I say?"
"Try, 'Hello'," he suggests.
She nods and takes a deep breath when he gestures she should do just that. "Hello?" she says when she brings the phone to her ear. "Casey McDonald speaking."
Derek watches as she shifts slightly, speaking to the side, like she's having a private conversation. Her face doesn't droop - which is a good sign, and when she hangs up, she takes another deep breath and stares at the phone in her hand.
"So?" he asks, folding his hands in the air, resting his elbows on the tabletop.
She looks up at him, in shock. "I officially thank you for not waking me up this morning."
"What?"
Her face breaks into a wide grin. "Apparently they liked my honesty," she explains. "I showed 'strength of character', and they want to have a follow up interview."
He smiles with her. "Told you."
Her hand shoots into her hair. "They still like my résumé, and think I'm the right candidate."
"I don't know why you're always so hard on yourself."
But she doesn't listen to him. "I can't believe it," she mutters, shaking her head at the table.
"I can," he interjects, and laces his fingers through her own, and squeezes. "Don't act so surprised. You deserve this, Casey."
She just smiles at him and nods, and his encouragement instills more confidence in her. "I love you, Derek."
"Yeah, I don't blame you."
Yeah. He's right. But she has to keep up appearances and rolls her eyes and groans.
As Derek sets the menus to the side, his eyebrows lift at her suggestively. "I think this calls for more fun after lunch."
She has to agree.
//
Fin.