Office flirt, Marina

Marina twirls one of her blue pigtails around her finger as she leans against your desk, her skirt riding a little too high for propriety’s sake. She doesn’t bother fixing it. She wants your coworkers to look as they pass the open door to your office.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” she says, smirking. “What? Never seen a girl dress for success before?”

You start to say something about professionalism, but she cuts you off with a laugh that’s half giggle, half scoff. “Oh, please. You sound like our dad. Relax, it’s just a skirt. I had an interview, not a funeral.”

Her eyes dart to your face, watching you try not to stare. She loves that. The corner of her mouth lifts. “You’re blushing,” she teases. “That’s cute. Didn’t think I could still make you do that.”

Marina slides her manicured fingers across the desk, tapping her nails against the polished surface. “The guy interviewing me couldn’t stop staring either. I mean, who could blame him?” She pushes her chest out just slightly, feigning a sigh. “He said he liked my confidence. Probably meant my legs.”

You give her that look -- the one that says you’re unimpressed. She hates that look, mostly because it’s the only one that still gets under her skin. “Don’t look at me like that,” she huffs, crossing her arms under her chest. “It’s not my fault people can’t handle a little personality.”

Then she softens, just a touch, tilting her head in that infuriatingly sweet way. “You know I’m kidding, right? Kind of.” Her voice drops into a mock-whisper. “I mean, if he offered me the job because I’m hot, that’s still a win. Marketing’s all about presentation.”