When Jughead is out of earshot, Betty lets out another frustrated sigh.
Without prompting, her fingers curl inward, the coral-manicured nails digging into her palm.
She stops herself before she breaks open the skin.
Her shameful coping mechanism for anxiety is not something she's looking to share with the world. Let alone her office.
Venting to Kevin is a much safer option. Even if she can't quite speak at the decibel level she'd prefer.
She settles for muttering under her breath.
"He is so bothersome," she grumbles, her chin quivering in anger.
Kevin sniggers. "He definitely has his moments."
Betty huffs in agreement.
A glance at the clock on her computer screen signals she should probably head to the meeting as well. But she needs another minute to calm down.
"It's like he goes out of his way to be a jerk to me, and only me," she complains.
From what she's seen, Jughead isn't particularly close with any of their colleagues. Except maybe Chipping. But they still seem to respect him and get along with him.
Regularly joking with him about politics or engaging in vivid discussions about books.
And then there's the handful of people who stop by his desk every damn day to ask for take-out recommendations. Because it's quite possible Jughead has eaten at every hole-in-the-wall restaurant in a five-mile radius.
He's passionate, she admits. She'll give him that. And witty, too.
But she really doesn't understand him.
Because if he can manage to tolerate all of The Easterner's various other employees, why not her?
Why is she the only person he reserves his venom for?
Kevin doesn't seem to have an answer either.
"Maybe you just rub him the wrong way?" he suggests with a sympathetic frown.
"But why?" Betty presses, inwardly cringing at her own curiosity. "I've tried being nice to him."
This is a half-truth, and she instinctively blushes at the fib.
In reality, Betty had snapped at him within about 20 minutes of meeting him. When the shock of his rudeness pricked her like a hundred tiny needles and she couldn't hold herself back.
But she had at least attempted to act pleasant toward him in the weeks that followed. Jughead just hadn't accepted.
He preferred to taunt Betty with a flurry of raised eyebrows and sarcastic barbs. Souring him to her so thoroughly that she began goading him back.
It's gotten to the point that virtually all of their communication now is passive-aggressive bickering.
With no apparent detente in sight.
Kevin doesn't call her out for the white lie though. Or question her role in their antagonism. He's firmly Team Betty, as he likes to say.
"Hell if I know," he offers with a shrug. "Heterosexual men are weird."
Betty laughs at that, relaxing a little.
Kevin grins in return. "Come on. You don't want to be late."
Betty nods, falling into step with Kevin as he walks her to the meeting room door. She smiles when he promises to fill her in on all the latest juicy office gossip over lunch.
But she can't get Jughead completely out of her mind.
Because as loath as she is to admit it, she knows the animosity between them is partially her fault.
It's early March when she has the misfortune of making Jughead Jones's acquaintance.
They ride the elevator up together on the morning of her first day of work.
Invariably, she puts her foot in her mouth.
She blames it on nerves.
Her stomach is filled with them all morning. During the half-mile walk from her apartment to the 77th Street and Lexington Avenue subway station, and on the entire 15-minute ride downtown.
Entering the Murray Hill office building only makes the butterflies worse.
She's been here before, for two in-person interviews, but this is different.
Today, she officially becomes a reporter at The Easterner. Which is exhilarating. But also terrifying.
Her fingers shake as she presses the floor call buttons to summon the elevator. They're still vibrating as she enters the elevator car.
A man follows behind her. About her age, maybe a year or two older. He's wearing a black leather motorcycle jacket and carrying a to-go bag from a diner called Samm's.
The greasy smell of a burger and fries pervades the small space. Making her queasy but also temporarily distracting her.
Probably a delivery guy, she thinks.
A cute one, too. She notices this almost right away, despite being in a long-term relationship with an assistant district attorney named Glen Scot.
As the elevator door closes, she realizes the man's headed to the same floor as she is.
"Oh," she blurts out.
At the sound of her voice, he arches an eyebrow in her direction.
Not wanting to be impolite, she puts on a bright smile and chirps, "Hi."
The man turns to look at her head-on. His hooded eyes linger for a brief second on her long legs in the sheer nude tights under her skirt, before meeting her gaze.
When she gets a better look at his face, she's struck by the intensity of his dark blue eyes and the adorable smattering of beauty marks on his left cheek.
Cute is an understatement. Try gorgeous.
Her breath catches just as he replies, "Hey."
Before she can stop herself, her smile widens. Her pink-painted lips opening to reveal her teeth.
He grins back at her, the dimples at the corners of his mouth peeking out. An amused glint in his eye.
It's the kind of smile she can feel in her toes.
One that more than hints the flutter of attraction she's feeling is mutual.
Betty blushes.
She knows she's taken, but flirting with a stranger she'll never see again is harmless. Especially if it's only for a minute.
"Pretty early to be delivering a hamburger, isn't it?" she jokes, her voice light. "Does that happen a lot here?"
Even under the tight leather jacket, she can see his posture stiffen. The grin wiped from his face.
"I wouldn't know," he grunts, turning away.
Betty feels a strange chill go through her. Worse than the nerves she's been battling all morning. She pulls her wool-cashmere tan coat tighter around her frame.
The man ignores her for the rest of the ride up.
Although he does purposely let her get off the elevator first.
Swallowing down her apprehension, she steps through the office's wide double glass doors and stops at the reception desk, feeling him waiting behind her.
"You can go first," she turns her head to tell him with a small smile. Hoping this appeases whatever offense she caused in the elevator.
But instead of dropping the food off as she expects, he scowls at her.
It looks like he wants to say something, too, but he's interrupted by the excited yet harried voice of another man hurrying toward them.
"Betty Cooper," the man calls, pulling his hand out for a shake as he approaches. "I'm Kevin Keller. From Talent & Culture. We spoke on the phone."
"Right, hi," Bettys says, smiling at him. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Kevin."
Motorcycle jacket snickers behind her and she does her best to hide the embarrassed blush alighting on her face. What is his problem?
"You too," Kevin replies, grinning back at her. "And I see you've already run into your new neighbor."
"Excuse me?"
"This is Jughead Jones," Kevin says, looking between them. "You're at the work space next to his."
"Surprise," he deadpans, before turning on his boot heel and marching off to his desk.
Betty flushes, turning back to Kevin in confusion.
"I didn't see him on the website," she squeaks out.
She'd diligently studied the magazine's masthead the previous weekend. Reading through the bios of each and every staff writer and editor. But she hadn't encountered a Jughead.
What an odd name, she thinks to herself.
"He publishes under J. Jones," Kevin explains.
That name she recognizes. She's read his book of short stories. Loved it, too. The small-town mysteries and dramas he'd poignantly depicted reminding her so much of home.
She flinches. What a horrible first impression she's just given.
Kevin must notice her stricken expression, because he offers Betty a reassuring smile.
"Don't worry about him," he says. "We call him the office grouch. Affectionately, of course."
Betty manages a smile back. But she feels bad.
She should apologize to Jughead as soon as she can. Get them back on the right foot.
From his seat at the conference table, Jughead watches Kevin deposit Betty at the meeting room door.
They wave goodbye with a laugh and Jughead's heart can't help but skip at the sight.
She's prettiest when she smiles.
Not that he could ever be accused of bringing one to her face.
At least, she seems to have recovered from his latest verbal assault.
Although he knows that means he'll soon have the urge to bother her once again.
Especially when she looks so good. Wearing another goddamned leg-baring skirt. This one pink plaid. Paired with a textured knit sweater that reveals a tiny sliver of her stomach when it rides up.
Jughead folds his arms over his own gray cable knit sweater, trying not to gape.
But he doesn't fully look away either.
He watches Betty's eyes narrow. She surveys the room, trying to find an open seat. Preferably, one far away from him, he assumes.
Unfortunately for her, most of them are already taken. Talking with Kevin has distracted her from showing up early like she usually does.
She reluctantly walks over to take the seat beside him.
A man Jughead doesn't recognize is eyeing her as she settles into the chair.
He's standing next to Waldo Weatherbee, the magazine's editor-in-chief, and a few other top brass at the head of the conference table.
Jughead studies him. He's tall, with light brown hair. Dressed in an expensive-looking navy suit. Definitely not a reporter. Probably a new corporate hire.
From the corner of his eye, he sees Betty look up, feeling someone's gaze on her. She smiles politely at the man, before busying herself with her notebook.
Jealousy burns a hole in his stomach.
He looks down at his creased maroon pants and wonders if a guy like that is Betty's type. It's likely, he thinks with a grimace.
Barbies tend to like Ken dolls.
And navy suit looks suspiciously similar to the man whose picture Betty had surreptitiously removed from the frame on her desk five months ago.
But, then again, maybe not. She's surprised him before.
Jughead stomps away from the reception desk and the possible succubus that is Betty Cooper.
After stowing his lunch in the kitchenette's refrigerator, he heads to his desk.
He can't believe she thought he was a delivery guy.
God forbid he sport one of his dad's old motorcycle jackets on the first day in months it's not completely freezing outside.
Honestly, how dare he retire his sheepskin winter coat before it's officially spring?
Or carry a take-out bag from his favorite neighborhood diner, which sadly doesn't deliver to midtown Manhattan?
With an angry jab of his finger, Jughead starts up his computer.
The first thing he does after signing in is dig up the company email introducing this Betty Cooper.
If she's going to be sitting next to him, he wants to know exactly what he's dealing with.
Jughead rolls his eyes when he sees her previous place of employment. A women's magazine? Do they even write about anything but eyeshadow shades and sex positions?
That's a gross exaggeration, he knows, but he's feeling particularly petty after the elevator incident.
When he looks up her previous byline, he's half-expecting to find a peppy listicle on how to please your man in five easy steps. Blowjob tips included.
Not that Jughead has anything against blowjobs. He may be a certified hermit, but he's still a red-blooded male. He just doesn't consider writing about them an art.
Or as evidence she's qualified to join The Easterner's writing staff.
But while he's right that her most recent stuff is sex-related, they're not fluff pieces.
He starts to skim one about the death of the sex scene and realizes he's interested. He reads closer. He follows that with an article defending romance novels for celebrating female pleasure.
They're good, he has to admit. Obviously well-written. But, more importantly, evocative and challenging. They make him think.
Which irks him.
He'd really wanted to judge this perky, too put-together woman just as harshly as she'd seemed to label him. No such luck.
Hearing footsteps approaching, he clicks out of the article links, hastily opening the Word doc containing his latest book review draft.
"Let me know if you need anything, Betty," Kevin says, pulling out the swivel chair for her. "Remember you're meeting with Charles at 10."
"Thanks so much, Kevin. I appreciate it."
"See you for lunch," he tells her.
"Can't wait," Betty calls after him.
With Kevin gone, Betty shrugs off her coat, revealing a half-sleeve pale gray sweater that clings to her torso.
The material is thin enough he can see the outline of her white bra under the office's fluorescent lights.
Jughead rubs his palms over his black jeans, trying to keep his eyes glued to his screen. Which is made more difficult by the fact he can feel her gaze on him.
Betty hangs the coat on the back of her chair and bites her lip, as if contemplating what to say.
Her "hi" is soft at first, her voice only rising a touch louder when he doesn't react. "Jughead?"
He swallows a sigh and tilts his head halfway in her direction. "Yeah?"
"I'm so sorry about earlier. I didn't realize you worked here. It's really nice to meet you officially."
Her mouth lifts up in a warm, bashful smile, and he's temporarily preoccupied by the pleading sparkle in her green eyes.
She'd be really sexy splayed on his bed begging, he thinks.
Fuck, not the time, Jughead.
He collects himself and frowns.
"Right," he grunts. "You didn't realize."
Betty seems taken aback. She wasn't expecting him not to accept her apology right away. He's not surprised. It's probably the first time in her life someone hasn't been appeased by her pleasing manner.
It's just that, as genuine as her apology sounds, he can also see through it. That it springs from her fear of upsetting someone on her first day.
And that's not enough for him to grant his forgiveness.
"I…er, it was an honest mistake."
It gives him a perverse pleasure to watch her stumble for the right words. But it also pisses him off that she doesn't seem to realize how insulting he found her insinuation.
How it triggers his own long-suppressed suspicions he's not good enough.
"Just do me a favor, Cooper," he snarks out before he can stop himself. "Don't make any more assumptions about who I am and what I do."
It's ruder than he intends. But hurt pride will do that to you.
Betty's face falls. For a millisecond, she looks on the verge of tears.
Jughead barely holds back an eye roll. She'll need much thicker skin if she plans to make it as a journalist.
But then she steels her shoulders and glares at him. Hard.
"Don't worry," she bites back. "I won't make the mistake of apologizing to you again."
She takes a seat and proceeds to ignore him.
His lips quirk up. He likes that response in a way. Because he was fully expecting brittleness. For a woman like her to cave to her emotions and tear up like a sad kitten.
But she doesn't. Aside from the slight tremble in her fingers when she turns on her computer, she's fine.
He's underestimated her, he realizes. She's tougher than she looks. And quick-witted, too. A side he can somehow tell she tries to keep hidden.
It captivates him for some reason. He wants more of it.
Later that week, he ribs her about using a wet wipe to clean her work space. Relishing how she squirms but then calls him out for the months of grime collecting on his computer screen.
He begins to revel in riling her up. In needling her about her preppy outfits (which he secretly loves) and what he thinks of her article topics.
He loves the way she fights back, too. With her frosty smiles and smart, but often, flustered retorts.
It's so much more real than the sweet and friendly but guarded way she acts toward the rest of the office.
Maybe it's the novelist in him. But he has always been much more interested in the layers underneath. The ones people prefer to keep buried.
He enjoys teasing them out of her.
Not to mention, more often than not, he's completely blinded by how gorgeous she is.
Talking to her sincerely without blurting out his crush would be impossible. Sarcasm is safer.
Betty sits ramrod straight, annoyed that once again she's found herself next to Jughead. Can she seriously not get a moment's peace?
At least during a meeting filled with people it's harder for him to pester her.
Not that he won't try.
Like clockwork, his foot begins to tap against the carpeted floor. A metronome for her sole benefit. She's two seconds away from extending an irritated hand to his knee to stop him.
The involuntary shiver that travels through her body at the thought keeps her from following through. The idea of touching him somehow makes her nervous.
Just ignore him, Betty, she orders herself. Focus.
And she does. Keeping her eyes trained on whoever's speaking as the discussion moves from the politics desk on to science and then technology.
Soon enough, Charles Smith, the features editor and her direct boss, is asking her what she's thinking of working on next.
She describes her idea to explore how recent television series are grappling with stan culture.
Charles asks her to flesh it out more and nail in on a direction. She nods, jotting down his notes with her black ballpoint pen.
As she's finishing up writing, she hears the ghost of a whisper in her ear.
"Isn't that a little out-of-touch, Cooper? Or are you just dying to re-watch 'Swarm'?"
He murmurs it so faintly she almost misses it. But immediately she's on edge.
"Stay in your lane, Jones," she mutters under her breath, so hopefully only he can hear.
As much as she'd hate for the rest of her colleagues to see her catty side, she can't help but respond to his snark. Why must he nettle her literally all the time?
"What?" he continues undeterred. "You think because I review three books a month, I don't consume other forms of culture?"
His voice is noticeably louder now.
Other people in the room overhear and start to titter.
Charles looks their way. "Are we interrupting your meeting, guys?" he asks with a chuckle.
Betty blushes a dark shade of red. She manages a tight, apologetic smile.
"I'm so sorry—"
"Just an aside," Jughead cuts in over her. "Carry on."
Charles wrinkles his brow, but moves on. "Okay, Jones, why don't you tell us about which of those three books you're reading now."
The meeting continues, and even though she can feel the residual embarrassment washing over her, she forces herself to pay attention.
She really dislikes messing up and, worse, being chastised. Although Charles seems to have taken it in stride. And Jughead promptly distracted him.
At least that. Since it was his fault to begin with.
Still, when the meeting wraps up, she zips out of the room, trying to beat Jughead back to their desks before he can say anything else.
He catches up to her easily, though.
"You know my next assignment is a book analyzing Preston Sturges' movies," he tells her as they approach their desks. "You think I'll have to watch any of them? Or is that also out of my lane?"
"Hm, screwball comedies for a guy with a screw loose," she flings back. "How appropriate."
Jughead's face falls.
Shit, that was mean, she thinks.
Sometimes amidst all their sniping she forgets he still has feelings. But then he'll get this sad, wounded expression in his eyes that makes her want to hug him and tell him everything's okay.
He has it now and Betty almost apologizes.
Jughead recovers quickly though.
In another instant, he's smirking at her.
"Clever, Cooper," he quips. "Did you go to pun school for that one?"
Jughead winces as he takes a seat, only half-listening to her sputtering response. Oof, that had hurt.
She thinks he's crazy. Fantastic.
He does his best to brush off the lingering sting though.
He's used to papering over people's conceptions with a stoic mask and an acerbic tongue.
This time is no different. Although maybe it hurts a little more coming from her. Okay, a lot more.
He swivels toward her to say something else, but the guy in the suit has wandered over and is now loitering above their conjoined desks.
"Excuse me, Betty, right?"
She looks up curiously. "Yes?"
"Sorry if this is forward, but did you go to Yale?"
"I did." Her lips curl up into a smile.
The man's face relaxes into one as well.
Jughead's jaw clenches watching the exchange, the fingers of both his hands balling into fists. Of course.
"I knew you looked familiar," the man continues. "I'm Adam Chisholm, the new corporate counsel."
"It's nice to meet you," Betty says sweetly. "What year were you?"
"Oh, I actually attended the law school there," he smugly explains. "Class of 2016."
Jughead stifles a groan. Subtle.
Betty doesn't seem to flag this pronouncement as a boast, however.
"That's amazing," she says, offering Adam another smile. "I graduated in 2017."
Adam grins wider. He leans over the desk partition, inching closer to Betty.
If Jughead didn't know any better, he'd say he was trying to get a peek down her sweater. Asshole.
Time to tune out, he decides, and he's mostly able to, as they continue their mindlessly boring chit-chat about Yale and what they're up to now.
But then this Chisholm character finds the way to punch him right in the jugular.
"We should get together sometime," Jughead hears him tell Betty.
He snaps to attention, his breath baited as he waits for her answer.
Betty flushes a delicate pink.
"I'd like that," she says softly.
Jughead tenses. His body feels as if it's being slowly drained of blood.
When the burst of nausea subsides, all he can think is, she's so pretty with rosy cheeks. He wishes she were blushing for him.
Not because he's said something she feels self-conscious about. He can do that easily. But because she likes him. Because she's flattered by his attention.
He's angry he's so inept at actual flirting. Of being anything other than a sarcastic little shit.
And he's jealous. So fucking jealous.
His face breaks into a deep frown.
"I should get back to work, but we'll talk soon?"
Adam's hand presses into her shoulder for a moment, and Betty glimpses at his knuckles before looking up to deliver a final smile.
"Sure."
He nods his goodbye and she offers a little wave in response.
As he walks away, she grins stupidly to herself.
She hasn't been asked on a date since her break-up with Glen. Not that Adam's given an official invitation, but she has an inkling one is forthcoming. And it's a nice feeling.
Or it would be, if the man sitting next to her wasn't snorting at Adam's retreating form.
She glowers at Jughead.
He glares right back, scowling harder than usual.
It's impressive, although she can't fathom what she's done to have so much wrath directed toward her.
She doesn't want to encourage him, but she's too curious not to hoist an eyebrow up. As if to ask what his damage is.
He exhales sharply, his penetrating gaze settling on hers.
"How cute," he declares dryly. "The upper crust practicing courtship."
The line is sniggered with his typical derision. But there's a different emotion blazing in his darkening irises. One that, at first glance, she can't really identify.
Not that any of his facial expressions are worth wasting her time deciphering.
Screw him, she thinks. Two can play this game.
She rolls her eyes and looks back at her screen.
"Jealous, Jones?" she sneers.
Betty half-expects a dismissive chuckle and a wisecrack along the lines of "nothing to be jealous about."
But instead of a snappy retort, she receives only silence.
That's unusual.
She glances back toward him.
He seems to be swallowing air and looking anywhere but at her.
Betty's eyelashes flutter in surprise.
Is that it? Is he jealous?
She can't imagine why he would be. Doesn't he hate her?
Jughead shifts in his seat, as he spies her peering over at him.
"In your dreams, Cooper," he scoffs. But the muttered declaration lacks his usual bite, and wit.
Maybe he really is jealous.
For some reason, the notion sends a warm rush of tingles over her skin.
A sensation that doesn't really settle, even as the afternoon drags on.
It's irritating as hell. And confusing.
A cute guy flirted with her, so why on earth is she thinking about how that's affected her jerk of a colleague? Or getting excited by his response?
She sighs.
Jughead Jones always manages to ruin everything.