The alarm goes off and I resist the urge to throw it against the wall. I dream of the day I retire; I'm going to celebrate that day by taking a sledgehammer to that cursed shrieking box.
Nearly a week has passed since Prim's wedding weekend, she's safely in Jamaica for her honeymoon, filling her Instagram with pictures of sun-drenched beaches and giant frozen cocktails. All is right in the world.
Or not.
When I stagger into the hall after showering, there's an addition to the large corkboard I use to organize my life (and Jo's). Held in place by a small throwing axe is a sheet of notebook paper, on which is written Challenge One: wear a skirt to work.
"Well that's simple enough," I murmur to myself. This is going to be a piece of cake. Cabin on the lake, here I come.
"Nuh-uh," Jo says behind me, and I jump, whirling around to face her. She's wearing three triangles of fabric that barely cover any of her naughty bits. After three years living together, you'd think I'd be accustomed to her clothing aversion, but no. I flush and avert my eyes. "So pure," she grouses. "Read the fine print, Brainless." Sure enough, there's more.
"No tights, no panties, and I choose the skirt," Jo reads aloud, cackling.
"It's February," I protest. "I don't remember signing up for pneumonia!"
"You're not going to catch pneumonia. You can borrow my long coat, you'll be fine."
"What on earth is the point of no panties?"
"This is a naughty list, not a stuff everyone does all of the time list." I could argue that I don't wear skirts very often either, but it's too early to waste my breath. "One more thing, Brainless," she smirks. "You can't tell a soul about the list."
"Why?" I'm genuinely puzzled, what difference would telling Prim make?
"My rules," Jo laughs. Then she sobers. "I want you to really experience this, Kat. What it's like to live a little, without a safety net."
"Whatever," I grumble, pushing past her to my room, closing the door none-too-gently behind me.
The skirt Jo's chosen lays across my pillows, mocking me. It's one of hers, and it's cute, all of Johanna's clothing is cute. But it's short, at the very edge of too short for the office short. And leather. How can I wear a leather skirt panty-free? My butt is going to stick to it when I sit down!
"It's lined, loser," floats through the door. Figures she'd be listening.
"Mind your own beeswax," I yell, and her laughter retreats down the hall.
I can do this. It's just a skirt, and I sit behind a desk most of the day anyway. My job as an editor for Capitol Geographic sometimes involves travel, but far more often it's simply pushing papers across my desk and chasing down freelancers with overdue articles.
The no tights thing sucks, but my legs are still reasonably smooth after Prim forced me into a pre-wedding spa day that involved an entire prep team divesting me of nearly every speck of body hair. And the olive tone to my skin means I don't have winter-pasty ghost legs.
This isn't a skirt I can wear with ballet flats though. I have a pair of reasonably comfortable heels at the back of my closet. Unfortunately, they're red. But paired with a red silk blouse, I look like a slightly dressier version of myself. Actually, I look like a slightly more professional version of myself too, except for the lack of panties.
My shit-disturbing roommate is in the shower when I tuck out of my room. I snap a picture of my reflection in the mirror, flashing her my middle finger, and text it to her as I slip into her coat and out the door.
Jo's skirt is snug, thankfully, so the cold winter wind doesn't threaten to expose my half-naked state to the world at large. But why didn't she warn me that walking panty-free was going to feel like this? I'm hyper-acutely aware of my lack of undergarments with every step, the air circulating around my nether regions, the friction of my flesh rubbing together or against my upper thighs when I shift just the right way. I try to adjust my pace; short steps, long steps, wide-legged cowboy steps, but the effect remains. By the time I get to the bus stop, I'm turned on and blushing like a tomato.
This, I understand now, is why Jo so often goes commando.
Thankfully, sitting is no different in my unfettered state, so when I climb off the bus at the stop in front of my office building, I'm more or less in control of myself again, and I manage to get to my desk without making too much of a fool of myself.
I text Johanna right away. Why didn't you tell me this was going to feel so weird?
Her reply is so quick I can only guess that she was waiting for me to message her. And spoil the fun?
I hate you. I type back, and add an angry face emoji. My phone rings almost immediately.
"You love me, Everdeen," Johanna says before I can even say hello. Her laughter rings down the line, and I groan.
"I'm serious, Jo," I hiss, trying to keep my conversation from attracting too much attention in our mostly open concept office.
"And that's your problem. You're too serious." Her laughter stops and she sighs. "No one can tell, Kat," she says more softly. "It's a naughty little secret that only you know, a reminder that you're a beautiful, sensual woman. So own it. Hold your head high and walk proud. Strut, baby!" Then she disconnects the call without letting me reply.
Strut indeed. The only strutting I'll be doing is when I do the shuffle of shame back out to the bus in eight hours time.
I manage to stay at my desk for a solid ninety minutes before the need for caffeine bests me. I'm a creature of habit, and I need a cup of tea or things are going to get grumpy really fast. The café all the way down in the concourse is out of the question in this state. Instead, I head for the employee kitchen.
With Jo's advice in mind, I keep my head up and my steps even, even as that squirmy feeling lights my stomach and heats my cheeks. Several people nod and smile at me as I pass their cubes, people who don't normally give me the time of day unless it's to dump more work on my desk. But I try to smile back at them, though I'm sure it looks more like a grimace.
Alma Coin, the editor-in-chief, is frowning and randomly pushing buttons on the Keurig machine when I walk into the kitchen. Her assistant must be off yet again today. He's a pretty boy, but useless behind a desk. It's his prowess on top of a desk that's the reason she keeps him around. Or so I've heard.
She glances up at me as I enter, surprise flares in her strange, pale eyes as they rake over my outfit, then land on my flushed cheeks. "Can you help me with this?" she asks, the first six words she's ever said directly to me, even though I've been here three years.
"Sure," I tell her. I don't bother walking her through the steps to working the machine, eventually Cato or Conan or whatever his name is will be back. Or, more likely, she'll hire another pretty boy to make her coffee. I plop a pod of butter toffee tsunami blend into the machine, and hum as it spits out her caffeinated sugar water.
"Thank you Miss… Everdeen," she says, the slight lilt at the end of my name the only indication that she's not one hundred percent sure who I am. Again, I've been working here for three years, the last nine months of which I've been reporting directly to her. But I plaster on a smile.
"You're welcome Ms. Coin. Anytime."
She smiles at me, a genuine smile I think, or as close as I've seen. Then, as she's heading out of the kitchen with a click-click-click of her grey suede heels, she stops and turns back to me. "Drop by my office this afternoon, Katniss," she says. "I have a project that I think you might be the perfect editor for." My eyebrows practically jump off the top of my head. But she merely nods and continues on her way. Huh. Score one for the dressier outfit?
The interaction must improve my mood because I don't realize I'm singing under my breath as I wait for the tea kettle until a crash directly behind me stops the notes in my throat.
Whirling, I see him standing stock-still in the doorway, eyes wide and jaw slightly unhinged, a pile of files scattered across the tiles at his feet.
Peeta Mellark.
He's a graphic designer, and he's been working at the magazine for a few months now. We've really never spoken, but of course I've seen him around. He's hard to miss, after all. Completely gorgeous, with wavy blond hair, blue eyes, and the kind of jaw that makes girls swoon, he attracts a lot of attention. But that's not really why I've noticed him.
Peeta is nice, like ridiculously nice. He brings in baked treats for every holiday, major and minor alike. I still dream about the perfect little strawberry tart he left on my desk on Valentine's day. And his kindness goes beyond plying the staff with carbs. I saw him comforting Annie in the photocopier room after that jerk Crane dressed her down in a staff meeting for something that wasn't even her fault. I know he drove Thom home every day last week while his car was in the shop. And he's not even doing those things to suck up or get ahead. He's just a genuinely kind person.
Kind people have a way of working their way inside me and rooting there. So I've kept track of the boy with the bread and pastries. Watched him help our coworkers without ever once asking for anything in return. Watched him smile at people who don't deserve it, watched him walk away from the gossips. The only other person I've ever countered as unfailing positive as this man is my little sister.
That's why I don't even think before I'm crossing the kitchen, crouching to help him pick up the scattered papers.
After a few beats, he bends down too, reaching for the papers all around us. He clears his throat and I glance up at him. His cheeks are so red it's like he's on fire, I can practically see steam coming from his collar, probably from the embarrassment of having dropped what appears to be an enormous portfolio of layout mockups for the summer edition. It's then that I remember I'm not wearing panties. I don't think he can see up my skirt, not at this angle, but with a little squeak, I flop down onto my knees anyway, reaching for a document that's slightly further away as a cover. He glances at me, curiosity lighting his pretty face, but says nothing. We gather his papers in silence.
"Thank you," he says softly as I hand him my stack. His voice is rich and huskier than I remember, and it does strange things to my belly.
"Oh, it's no problem," I murmur, shifting as I try to figure out an elegant way to get off the floor without flashing him. When he offers me his hand, I take it without even really thinking. It's huge and so warm, enveloping my hand almost completely. His grip is firm, comforting, as he tugs me to my feet.
Up close, his eyes are stunningly blue, almost electric, and the way he fills out his pale blue button down shirt suggests the rest of him is as firm as his grip. I can't help but stare a little. He smiles. "You, uhm. You look good today, Katniss."
And just like that, the switch on my mood is flipped, back to my irritated default. I scowl at him. As if wearing a skirt changes how I look. A few inches of bare legs changes nothing about who I am or how well I do my job. His eyes widen at my expression. "No, I mean, you're always beautiful, every day, it's just you look nice today."
"As opposed to?"
"Shit," he says under his breath, and I swear he gets even redder. "That's not… I didn't…" He sighs, rubbing the back of his neck, and I have to bite my lip because his sad puppy look is all kinds of adorable. "The red," he says, and I glance down at my blouse. I don't see anything out of place. "You should wear red more often," he says it softly, I have to lean in a little to hear. "It suits you." And then he gives me a smile that seems so genuinely sweet with just the right touch of shyness that unexpected warmth rushes through me.
"Thanks?" I say, flustered. I'm not good at compliments. Assuming that's what that was. His expression falls.
"I'm, uh," he says, gesturing helplessly towards the door, the folder in his hand teetering precariously. "I'm just going to go. I'll see you around, Katniss."
"Bye, Peeta," I call out, belatedly, and he stops, glancing back over his shoulder with a pleased but perplexed expression before continuing.
o-o-o
I'm almost floating as I leave Coin's office. Panty-free or not, there's a definite strut to my step and I'm owning it.
Panem Geographic will be producing series of specials about ecotourism. She offered me the first issue, which just so happens to be about the mountains my late father loved so dearly, the ones where he took me as a little girl, taught me to swim and fish and love the land. I couldn't have ever dreamed of a better project for me, and here it is being given to me on a silver platter.
I got over the weirdness of sitting in my boss's office sans culotte pretty quickly when she was dangling the project of a lifetime in front of me. I'm sure that the change in my wardrobe had something to do with it. Reminded Coin that I exist, if nothing else.
Not that I'm going to tell Jo that.
I plop down in my office chair and grab my phone. As much as I don't want to bother Prim on her honeymoon, I have to at least text her my good news.
I'm grinning at my phone when a white take-out cup appears on the desk in front of me, as if summoned by magic. I glance up just as Peeta pulls his hand away from the cup and lifts it to rub the back of his neck. "Didn't mean to disturb you," he says.
"You didn't." I toss my phone onto the desk and raise an eyebrow. The warm, spicy scent of my favourite chai wafts from the cup and my stomach grumbles embarrassingly. Peeta's soft smile widens, and with a wink he produces a little paper bag and sets it beside the cup. My heart joins my stomach in fluttering. He really is handsome. But I have no idea what he and his steaming cup of delight are doing here. "What's all this?"
"A little thank you, for earlier," he says. "With the papers," he adds, as if I might have forgotten.
"Oh." I feel a strange pang of something like disappointment. How did I manage to make him think that he owed me anything for simply being a decent human being? "You didn't need to do that."
He smiles. Peeta is always so free with his smiles. "And, uhm, an apology. For acting like a doofus."
"You're not a doofus," I say without even meaning to. I've heard some of Peeta's presentations, at all-staff meetings, He's thoughtful and articulate. Though he's working in layout, I could definitely see him as an editor, if it's what he wants. He laughs again, cheeks pinking slightly.
"I always seem to be when I'm around you," he says. My stomach gurgles again; I skipped lunch, both because I was anxious about meeting with Coin, and because I didn't want to wander too far in my current state.
With a single long finger, Peeta pushes the paper bag just a little closer. "Please," he says. Inside, I find a cheese and garlic scone, slightly warmed and my eyes roll back in my head. These are my absolute favourite of the many wonderful things the little café downstairs has on offer. "You prefer the savoury ones, right?" he says softly as I slide the buttery bit of heaven out of its paper prison.
"Yeah," I say, distracted, the warm treat's aroma stealing my courtesy and sense. Beside me, Peeta chuckles, warm and pleased. "I mean, yes, I do," I say, snapping out of my reverie. "And these are my favourite." I glance up at him, his genuine smile lighting something in my chest.
"Someday you'll have to try a Mellark's cheese bun then," he says. "They're even better."
"You make cheese buns?"
He nods. "My family has a bakery back home. I worked there from the time I could reach the counter until I moved away after college."
"If my family owned a bakery I don't think I'd ever leave," I mumble around a mouthful of buttery, flaky goodness. My mother says that I always eat like I'll never see food again. It's a throwback from a time when that was a distinct possibility. Peeta merely smiles.
"Well, I'm the third son, so staying there was never in the cards." He says it simply enough, but there's something just a little sad in his expression. I can't help wonder what else is beneath Peeta Mellark's perpetual sunshine expression, what other worlds are locked away inside him.
His must misinterpret my silence as dismissal because his expression falls a little. "Anyway," he says. "I should go."
"Oh," I say, strangely disappointed. "Okay." He turns to leave, but I reach out and grab his wrist before he can go. A little shock of awareness shoots up my arm. I wonder if he feels it too. "Thank you," I murmur, voice tight and not quite able to meet his eyes. But he smiles.
"I'll see you tomorrow?" he asks, and it feels like a promise.
"Tomorrow."
o-o-o
"And then after Coin gave me the project, that hot guy I told you about from creative services brought me a cheese scone!" I'm two-and-a-half glasses into Jo's and my Thursday night wine and pizza kitchen date and feeling no pain. "Best day ever." Jo clinks her glass against mine, lips rosy from the cheap Italian wine and curled up in grin. "Guess I should wear a skirt more often," I say, slurring a bit on the word skirt. It's a hard word to spit out with partially numb lips. Jo belches.
"It's not the skirt, moron. It's the attitude."
I scowl, or try to anyway, though the amused look on Jo's face suggests I'm not wholly successful. "I don't have an attitude." At that, Jo laughs.
"Oh you definitely do, Brainless. But that's not what I mean. You walked in there today and held your head up high and strutted around like you owned the place. You were a total badass. That's what got you all of the attention."
I shrug. "S'not like I'm gonna go in there without underpants ever again. So the effect'll be short-lived." That's a depressing thought.
She grabs my chin. "You're strong and hot and fierce, no matter what you are - or aren't - wearing. Don't let them forget it." She lets go of my face, blanching a little. "Now if you'll 'scuse me, I think I need to pray to the porcelain gods." She staggers away, but leaves me grinning. As much of a pain in the ass as Jo can be, she really is a great friend. I should go hold her hair back for her. But I think I'll finish my glass of wine first.