BUTTERFINGER® Bar Insurance

I placed my coffee mug on the table across from Roger, a slick exec from accounts. I laid my Butterfinger down and noticed the rise of his eyebrow. As his eyes glazed over, I wondered if the blouse I was wearing had caught his attention. No dilettante in the art of seduction, Roger flashed his pearly whites, asking if I had plans for the weekend. I had no interest in this office lothario, but what could be the harm in a little flirtation? Before I could respond, Sally from reception rushed in. “Brenda: important call; line 7.” I hurried out and that was the last I saw of my Butterfinger.