"Hot" Guy in Accounts

Gather round, friends. Let me tell you a tale of love, lust, and a spreadsheet enthusiast who turned my office life into a rom-com with a plot twist so savage it still stings on rainy Tuesdays.

It all started innocently enough. A new guy joined the accounts team. Tall. Dark. Not conventionally handsome, but in that way where you’d still sneakily refresh your Teams profile to see if he’d uploaded a better pic. He had this mischievous charm – the kind that made you forgive a man for wearing brown shoes with black trousers. You know the type.

We had to work closely together, which meant he’d often wander over to my side of the office, clutching a notebook and a question so basic even the office printer could’ve answered it. But it wasn’t about the question, was it? It was the way he said my name, like it had an extra syllable, the way he’d lean over my desk just a little too far, and laugh a little too hard at my very average jokes. Flirting, yes? Surely?

Day by day, I got more into it. I found myself looking forward to the moment he’d round the corner, pretending to need my help with a budget forecast. My heart would flutter at the sound of his footsteps (which I now realise is equal parts tragic and deluded, but hindsight’s a b*tch).

This lowkey flirtation went on for months. Months. And then… Italy.

“Where’s Hot Accounts Guy?” I asked one morning, trying to sound casual while internally pacing like a caged lion.

“Oh, he’s gone to Italy to propose to his girlfriend,” someone replied between sips of coffee.

Sorry, what?

Girlfriend? Proposing? Fiancé?

I did what any sane woman would do – smiled politely, nodded like it didn’t feel like I'd been slapped with a spreadsheet, and excused myself to cry in the loo. I mean, what the hell had the last few months been? A fever dream? There was a vibe. Wasn’t there?

Fast forward a week, and Hot Accounts Guy is back, sporting a tan and a smug “she said yes” face. To celebrate the engagement, the team headed out for drinks. You can guess where this is going.

The wine was flowing, inhibitions were lowered, and somewhere between pint five and shot three, we started exchanging cheeky kisses. I know. I know. But you weren’t there. It was electric. I was jumping on his back, we were playfighting – it was 5am, a school night, and I had no way home.

Enter: Mistake #74. “Don’t worry,” he says, “I live nearby, you can crash at mine. There’s a spare room.”

A spare room in a flat he shares with his brand-new fiancé.

I should’ve run. Called a taxi. Slept on a bench. Anything. But alas, tequila makes you do dumb things, so off we stumble to his flat. We barrel through the front door like teenage burglars. He ushers me into the spare room. I hear her voice from the bedroom:

“Who’s that?”

“Oh… just a stranded work colleague.”

I. Could. Have. Died.

I lay there, fully clothed, heart pounding, trying to comprehend what had just happened. The next morning (or hour, since we slept for approximately 45 minutes), we grabbed a greasy breakfast – his treat – and limped into the office like the walking dead.

I lasted three hours. Told my boss I was sick. My colleagues, legends that they are, promptly told her I was out until 5am. Snitches. I was in trouble.

And yet, the story doesn’t end there. We continued stealing kisses on the occasional night out, as messy and confusing as it sounds. But it never went further. Thank God for that, I suppose. Or not. Who knows?

Then one night, we’re sat in a pub. The fairy lights are twinkling. I’m mid-sip of my G&T when he hits me with it.

“You’re the kind of girl no one marries. Just a bit of fun.”

Boom.

No punchline. Just that. Straight to the jugular.

Now, at the time, I laughed it off. Called him a w*nker, probably. But it stuck. I was in my twenties then, but even now, every so often, that sentence creeps back into my brain and does a little jig.

Was he right?

I’ve had a lifetime of not being taken seriously. Of being the “fun girl”, the “wild one”, the “she’s great, but…” girl. And that one line, dropped so casually between pints, echoed louder than any compliment he’d ever given me.

So what’s the moral here?

Never trust a man who carries a calculator with confidence?

Don’t kiss your work crush if he’s got a ring on layaway?

Maybe.

But really, it’s this: Guys. Are. Scum.

(Okay not all, but in this story? 100%. Certified.)

Thanks for coming to my TED Talk. If you’ve got a messy, flirty, tragic little office romance of your own – pull up a chair. I’ve got time, tea, and probably another three heartbreaks to share. See you in the next post. 💋

Disclaimer: No actual accountants were harmed in the writing of this post. Except maybe emotionally.