The deskmate dilemma, p.1
The Deskmate Dilemma, page 1
This is a work of fiction, and the views expressed herein are the sole responsibility of the author. Likewise, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events or locations, is entirely coincidental and used fictitiously.
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Copyright © 2026 by Kimberly Ager
Published under the pen name Waverly O’Brian
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Published by Wicked Ink Publishing Ltd.
www.wickedinkpublishing.com
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Illustrations © 2026 by Kimberly Ager
Book design © 2026 by Wicked Ink Publishing Ltd.
Editors: Raymond Griffiths & Adam Bamford
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All rights reserved. No part of this book may be scanned, uploaded, reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means whatsoever without prior written permission from the publisher.
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First Edition: April 2026
Printed in Canada
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Library and Archives Canada Cataloguing in Publication
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Title: The deskmate dilemma / Waverly O'Brian.
Names: O'Brian, Waverly, author.
Identifiers: Canadiana (print) 20260162450
Canadiana (ebook) 20260162469
ISBN 9781998278336 (softcover)
ISBN 9781998278343 (EPUB)
Subjects: LCGFT: Romance fiction. | LCGFT: Novels.
Classification: LCC PS8629.B69 D47 2026 | DDC C813/.6—dc23
For everyone working their 9-5 job, daydreaming about their happy ending.
Letter to the Reader
I love happy endings and I always have.
Often, if I’m concerned a book I’m reading won’t end happily, I’ll skip to the last chapter and check. I like making sure I won't have to deal with an unhappy ending before I get too invested (I know some people will be absolutely enraged by this, and although I know I shouldn’t, I still do it!).
In life, we don’t get a lot of “happily ever afters,” and we also don’t get to peek ahead in time to see if that happy ending is on its way. I think that’s part of the reason I’m so drawn to the contemporary romance genre; you don’t have to wonder, because the endings are always happy. No matter how many twists and turns, or how many challenges the main characters face, they find each other in the end. I want to bring to life these kinds of happy endings, and as delusional as it may seem, I want to live a million of them within the pages of the books I read and write.
As a young adult, I stepped into the work world without so much as a week long vacation after graduating from my undergrad, excited and ready to become a contributing member of society. Suffice to say, I went into the adult work environment incredibly naïve.
Since then, I’ve come to the unfortunate realization that adulthood often feels like a scam. You have to work a 9-5 job to pay bills and buy groceries and do chores and it seems almost impossible to juggle everything. The experience was incredibly eye opening, and in the end, led me down the path of finding my joy in the hours outside of my job, and putting creative things (like this book!) out into the world.
My dream is that this story inspires readers to consider investing their time and energy into things that help them feel fulfilled. If that means you find fulfillment in your job and your coworkers, amazing. If that means you work a stable job to find fulfillment outside of work, great. If you find other ways to make your life work without a traditional job, fantastic. You are so much more than you will ever know and your talents can be used for whatever you set your mind to.
I also hope this book reaches the people who are too scared to tell people the important things. The ones who hold back and are plagued by the ‘ifs’ and ‘buts’ of life. Please, just say the thing. Do the thing. Life is far too short to let time slip by. Plus, you never know how obvious things might look from the outside.
One more quick note, for anyone looking for a spice-less read, kindly skip over Chapter 36. There will be some mild spice outside of that chapter, but nothing too crazy.
Love was never on their to-do list, but it’s the one deadline they can’t ignore.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chatper 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
One Year Later
Acknowledgments
Conversation With The Author
Discussion Guide
About the Author
My bright red heels clicked on the floor as I made my best effort to sprint to the boardroom. I glanced around the empty offices as I went, praying someone else was also running behind so I could walk into the meeting with them.
The sterile grey walls and empty wooden desks stared back at me. Judging me. Practically laughing at me as the echoes of my running filtered through the surrounding air. My mind reeled at the thought that I would not only lose track of time but let myself do something so stupid in such fashionable and loud shoes.
I knew about the meeting. It’s not like it was poor communication or a last-minute switch-up. It’s at the same time every week. Yet somehow, despite multiple reminders and promises to myself, I got caught up in an unimportant task. Yet again, self-sabotaging my chances of flying under the radar. I might have only been a handful of minutes late, but to Harold, it wouldn’t matter.
As the last offices blurred past me, I desperately used my hands to tame my mess of dark curls into something resembling a low bun, hoping the few pieces framing my face were cute instead of disheveled looking.
The door was closed when I got there, which was immediately a bad sign.
I fought a grimace and patted my bun twice to ensure I captured all the curls. It seemed like it was about as good as one could expect from a single elastic band. I took one extra breath, trying to calm the erratic heartbeat pounding through my chest.
In hindsight, sprinting there wasn’t the smartest decision. Any time I would have saved by running was now being used to slow my breathing. Probably longer. I need to go to the gym more, apparently. I stared at the door another second, adjusting my black dress, and steeling myself to face the music.
I slowly opened the door and avoided eye contact as I slipped into my usual chair. Luckily, my spot was only two seats down from the entrance. I tried flexing my feet in just the right way so that my shoes would make the least amount of noise as possible. Luckily, no one switched up the unofficial seating plan, because slinking to the chair at the far end of the room would have been far, far worse.
Subtly, I glanced down at the rectangular wooden table. It felt bulky, too big for the room it was in. Like it made the already cramped room even more suffocating. I once asked HR if we could spruce the room up a bit. Maybe add a picture or two, a centerpiece perhaps. Literally anything to break up the monotony. Despite the initial excitement my idea got, Harold, my sixty-something year old scum-bag of a boss, decided it wasn’t ‘professional enough.’ As if a fake plant or a painting would somehow take away a fraction of his managerial authority. Maybe he was worried that if the Director of Marketing and Communications, or God forbid, the VP, saw any changes at all, there would be issues. I swear, any power at all goes directly to Harold’s head.
A few people’s eyes trailed my way, but I didn’t let them see my discomfort, or my still too heavy breaths. Instead, I turned my rapt attention towards Harold. He didn’t miss a beat despite my interruption and continued his monotone speech about the marketing plan for the company as if I never even existed. His obviously dyed black hair was slicked back and showed an ungodly amount of his already too large forehead. Deep lines marked his face, where his scowl usually sat. His blue suit was immaculate but unflattering, and I tried my best not to stare at his bushy moustache twitching as he talked.
Slowly, I let out a shaky breath and finally set my notebook and coffee down on the table. A few months ago, when I was late for a disturbingly similar reason, I ended up getting reamed out in front of everyone as soon as I walked in. I might be in the clear. I chanced a glance up at the seat across from me and couldn’t help but crack the smallest of smiles as I saw Ryan, my workplace bestie, already looking at me. His faint smile screamed, I told you so, but I could see the relief flash across his eyes that I made it at all.
Ryan warned me twice that the meeting was starting right before leaving our shared workspace. I waved him off both times, thinking I would obviously get there on time. He was incredibly hesitant to leave me, but I was so confident. I fooled him, and also myself, into thinking I would make it and that I’d learned from my past mistakes. Maybe next time.
I also used the same justification to ignore my meeting notifications. There would still be plenty of time to get to the meeting once I finished the last teeny-tiny formatting issue on one of our graphics.
The teeny-tiny issue ended up leading to another issue, leading down a rabbit trail of formatting changes that, although visually, didn’t make too much difference, definitely needed to be done before the rollout of this campaign. Next thing I knew, I was glancing at the clock, giving myself a minor heart attack as the realization hit that I was late and would be once again facing Harold’s wrath.
Despite my best efforts to concentrate on what Harold was saying, my thoughts kept drifting back to the formatting. I gritted my teeth. I would have to have a little chat with the intern, Cheryl, who sent me the drafts. The work was sloppy, and even though we normally got along great, I wasn’t gonna be the one to clean up after our interns every single time one of them forgot to do something.
It felt like a weekly occurrence where I noticed things like images that weren’t embedded, or a slightly wrong-sized artboard, or a low-resolution image. Hell, I even noticed one of the gradient overlays used #1B4660 rather than #083F60. Not acceptable, especially when we had the colour swatch on the document, next to the artboards. What are we doing? Just eyeballing colours now?
Even thinking about it made my fingers tighten around my pen.
I tried to open my notepad as quietly as possible and, as I did, I accidentally dropped my pen. Of course. I reached out my hand clumsily to catch it and cursed myself silently as it brushed my fingertips before unceremoniously plopping to the floor. Luckily, the drab, grey carpet cushioned its landing, but I wanted to curse like a sailor as I tried to reach down to grab it.
I made the mistake of glancing around the room as my hand grasped the pen and my eyes snagged on Ryan’s light green eyes, which were still watching me. His head quirked to the side, and an eyebrow raised slightly. As if wondering how on earth I’d made it this far in life.
Unsuccessfully, I tried to fight a smile, and he shook his head at me in light chastisement. I gave the smallest shrug of my shoulders as I stifled a laugh. I don’t know either.
Then I heard someone on the other side of the room loudly clear their throat.
Harold.
Well, fuck.
“Excuse me, Ms. Marshal, but did I say something funny?” Harold’s voice was deceptively calm.
I kept my eyes level with Ryan, and my blood rushed from my face. This is not good. Quite bad, in fact. Not only did I mess up and come late, but I messed up my chance at flying under the radar because of a pen. I momentarily considered hiding under the table.
Turning toward Harold, I sat up straighter. Flashing what I hoped was a smile, I shook my head once and glanced down at my notebook. I hated feeling meek, but with Harold, anything else would lead to a written warning and three hour-long sessions with him and Jane from HR. I know from experience.
He narrowed his beady eyes at me, and I felt like a bunny rabbit, just trying to maintain eye contact while hoping the predator didn’t see me. Except I knew he saw. I sensed myself shrinking under his gaze, which I could still feel lingering on my face as I kept my eyes downcast.
“I know these meetings are not everyone’s favourite, but I won’t tolerate tardiness or insolence.”
He followed up with a quiet whisper to Phil, our resident hot douchebag, with something that sounded an awful lot like, “Even if some people think showing up in a short skirt makes up for being late.”
I couldn’t be one hundred percent certain that’s what he said, but I racked my brain, trying to figure out an alternative. Maybe he’s talking about something unrelated?
Phil smirked at me in a way that he knew I knew exactly what had just been said about me. This confirmed my fears. Or at least strongly supported them. Yikes. The other eight people, including our three interns, likely heard him too then. If not all of them, then at least the ones closest to him. I clenched my fist in my lap, trying to decide whether I hated Phil or Harold more.
I knew it was Harold, but at that moment, with his stupid smirk, Phil would have been a lot more satisfying to punch in the face.
Phil was one of those guys who were hot and totally knew it. He was half Asian and had a certain polished handsomeness to his features, especially his brown almond-shaped eyes. When he first started at the company, I couldn’t help appreciating his looks, and even looked forward to talking to him, but the more he interacted with Harold, the more like Harold he became. It felt like he thought he could get away with just about anything so long as he had his charm and his place firmly up Harold’s ass.
In fact, I was surprised he didn’t make his own comment to encourage Harold’s rudeness. Well, I guess not surprised per se, this was a team meeting after all, and wasn’t exactly the stealthiest place to show his doucheyness, but I could picture it happening.
Phil splayed his legs wide in a determined man spread, waiting to see if I would react. Hell, I was waiting to see if anyone would react. An awkward limbo held the room, and Phil’s eyes gleamed with sick triumph as he ran a hand through his medium-length, jet-black hair. He turned toward Harold again and whispered something to him. I didn’t know what he was saying, but my stomach dropped to the floor, nonetheless.
Then he had the audacity to wink at me. My nose scrunched in disgust.
The only bright side I found to this was that he was better at whispering than Harold, so even though we all knew he was saying something, we didn’t have to actually hear it. But seriously? Come on, Phil, that was super douchey, even for you.
I don’t think either of them used to act like this. It was a more recent thing, and I was not here for it. It wasn’t appropriate, and I hated what the interns saw. To my knowledge, they hadn’t spoken like that to our female intern, Cheryl, and her internship ended August thirty-first, so she would only be working there a few more months.
The thought of how they might act once the interns finished made my heart sink. It seemed like the interns being there often, although apparently not always, meant they tempered their words. But would the interns think talking to people that way was acceptable? A common workplace practice? I shuddered at the thought.
I wanted to shield them, but each time Harold got mad at me or said something inappropriate about me, it made my interactions with them different. Like they didn’t want whatever bad luck I had to rub off on them. As if they feared being associated with me. That any authority I might have had wasn’t real. It wasn’t like I was helping myself when I covered for them all the time either. They knew I would fix things for them, just like they knew associating with me was going to do them no favours with Harold.
To summarize, it’s complicated at best.
My cheeks heated with embarrassment. Today crossed some new lines, and I didn’t even know how to handle it. My dress was of an appropriate length based on our HR guidelines. In fact, it was knee-length and wasn’t riding up from being tight because it flared out. Like seriously, what the hell?
My face felt like it was on fire, but I latched onto my professionalism. It was really all I could do. Fighting back and telling them they were out of line would only lead to more trouble. I resisted the urge to cry and the other urge to sucker-punch them both in their dirtbag faces. I liked to think Phil wasn’t actually a terrible person, but it was hard to remember that when he acted like this just to kiss Harold’s hairy ass.
