“No. Your approach sounds more efficient.” Genuinely interested, I found myself kneeling to examine her system more closely. Our hands nearly touched as I reached for the same file she was reaching for, and we both pulled back.
“Sorry,” she apologized, tucking a pen behind her ear.
“No, go ahead.” I stood up abruptly, suddenly aware of how close we were. “Seems like you have a solid handle on things. I’ll leave you to it.”
Her eyes met mine before sliding away. “Sure thing, boss.”
I went back upstairs, oddly unsettled by the exchange. In my office, I attempted again to focus on the Westridge files, but Aven’s organizational system kept intruding on my thoughts. The color-coding made a lot of sense, and the cross-referencing approach would save hours of searching in the future. It was objectively good work, the kind of initiative that would earn any other employee recognition.
By lunchtime, I’d manufactured another reason to go downstairs. The employee handbook, which I could have easily emailed or had Tamika deliver became my excuse. I tucked it under my arm and headed back to the basement, ignoring the knowing look Tamika shot me as I passed her desk.
This time, Aven rapidly typed while referencing the stack of files beside her. She’d pulled her hair up into a messy bun, exposing the curve of her neck.
“Thought you might need this for reference,” I said, placing the handbook on the edge of her desk.
She looked up, a quick smile flickering across her features. “Thanks. I’ll add it to my light summer reading list right afterWar and Peace.”
I found myself lingering, observing the changes she’d already implemented. The computer setup now included a makeshift standing desk option, a box placed on top of the desk surface, on which she could set the keyboard when she needed to stretch her legs.
“You did all this today?” I couldn’t keep the surprise from my voice.
“Organization is kind of my thing. Always has been.” She gestured to the space around her.
“The system you’ve implemented is good. Better than what we had before.”
She tilted her head, studying me with her perceptive eyes that had always seen more in me than I wanted to reveal. “High praise from the boss man.”
The familiar teasing pulled me back to a time when conversation between us was easy, before time and distance complicated everything. For a dangerous moment, I fought the urge to respond by slipping back into what we once had.
Instead, I tucked the file under my arm and retreated behind professionalism. “Just giving credit where it’s due. Keep up the good work.”
A couple of hours later, the usual post-lunch energy dip was more pronounced, with fewer voices in the hallway and less keyboard clicking than normal. At first, I attributed it to the Westridge deadline having everyone’s heads down on their assignments. Yet when I stepped out to refill my coffee mug, the break room was empty, but people were returning to their desks with steaming mugs that definitely didn’t contain the sludge from our communal machine.
Reed walked past, nodding a distracted greeting, his cup emitting an aroma that made our break room brew smell like dishwater by comparison. Diane from accounting followed a few minutes later, carrying coffee but what looked suspiciously like a homemade cookie, though I knew for a fact our vending machine’s idea of baked goods came in crinkly plastic wrappers with expiration dates measured in decades.
I returned to my office, attention split between the Westridge files and the strange migration patterns of my staff. Through my open door, I peeped Martinez, who should have been prepping the background check I’d assigned him, cross the hallway, disappearing in the direction of the archive stairwell. Twenty minutes later, he returned with a fresh cup of whatever everyone was drinking, looking more relaxed than I’d seen him since reassigning him from his stakeout.
This continued every fifteen to twenty minutes; someone would make the journey down the hall, only to return with refreshments and a subtle but noticeable lift in their mood. Even more telling was when Tamika, who’d made her disdain for Aven perfectly clear yesterday, gathered her salad container and phone before heading in the same direction during her usual 1:15 pm lunch break.
When she hadn’t returned by one-forty, my curiosity overcame my determination to keep my distance from the basement. I stood, straightening my tie reflexively, and made my way down the hallway with measured steps that betrayed none of the irrational irritation building in my chest. Whatever was happening downstairs was clearly disrupting the office workflow. As the owner, I had every right to investigate.
I’d almost reached the basement door when Eric from IT emerged. He carried his laptop and a mug with what looked like a cinnamon stick poking out.
“Oh hey, Boss. I finished upgrading the basement system. The old dinosaur’s running much better,” he said, seeming startled to see me.
I raised an eyebrow. “I wasn’t aware we’d authorized an upgrade for the archive computer.”
Eric shifted his weight. “It was more of a… proactive maintenance thing. Better to prevent problems before they start, right?”
Before I could point out we’d been ignoring “problems before they start” with that computer for the better part of a decade, laughter floated up from the stairwell. There were multiple voices, including Tamika’s distinctive contralto, which I hadn’t heard raised in genuine amusement since the holiday party three years ago when she’d had two glasses of wine and transformed into a person who didn’t terrify junior staff.
“Sounds like a party down there.”
“Yeah, Aven made coffee. That stuff is bomb, nothing like the break room sludge. No offense,” he added hastily.
“None taken,” I replied dryly, well aware of our coffee’s limitations.
More laughter echoed up the stairs, followed by Aven’s voice, clear and animated as she described something I couldn’t quite make out. Judging by the chorus of appreciative responses, it had her audience captivated.
