“Ahem.” Spencer clears his throat again, snapping us out of the moment. I pull my hand back and swallow hard, tucking a phantom hair behind my ear as he addresses Noah. “Didn’t you want to set a meeting for next week?”
“Yes, of course. I would like to sit down and review your proposal together as well as hash out a rough estimate for deadlines. I’d like to pull someone from the marketing team in as well so we can get a good idea of what they already have going and how we can prioritize things.”
“Right,” I say, twisting to grab my planner from the corner of my desk.
Flipping it to the right week, I notice too late the bright pink highlighter lines and doodles I jotted down while daydreaming in a conference call last week. My Brazilian wax appointment—highlighted with hearts and flowers—stares up at me from the page, my mind reeling as I wonder who I fucked over in a previous life to deserve this kind of humiliation. Flustered, I flip it and it slips out of my hands, landing on the floor, doodle side up. Noah bends over and smooths the page before handing it back to me. I clear my throat.
“When did you have in mind?”
“Since Thursday at two is booked, how does twelve thirty sound?”
My jaw drops and I snap it shut so hard my teeth ache. He did not just read that. He totally did. Doing my best to not thinkabout Noah thinking about hair being ripped out from between my ass cheeks, my voice is little more than a squeak.
“Great.”
He nods, the amusement still playing behind his eyes, and Spencer tugs him away to meet some of the other team members. Ben pops up again, his voice a tease.
“That was . . .”
“Don’t.”
“Look, we all think he’s hot—haven’t you seen the group chat?”
I haven’t. I pull myself out of it every time Amy tries to add me, which is at least once a week. Ben continues, unbothered by my lack of an answer.
“If you’re going to survive three months working that close, though, you have got to get your shit together. Because that”—he waves his hand in the general vicinity of me—“was embarrassing.”
He has no idea. But his stiff call out rumbles and twists in my gut as he dips back into his own cube. Uneasy, I sink into my seat, prop my elbows on my desk, and bury my face into my hands.
This has to be some kind of cosmic joke. I wassurethe last forty eight hours pulled me from the running. Raking over any bit of the presentation, I do my damndest to remember the parts I managed to make it through. At my best, that presentation was ready to sweep the competition, but yesterday was certainly not my best. I was hungover, on edge from the realization that the asshat from Blue Heron is actually my new-to-town boss, and fighting for my life against my own watery, roaring bowels.
The office settles into its usual ambiance and I work to focus on my desktop and not the gaping pit of swirling questions. Whatever prompted Noah to pick me for this project should be reason enough for me to believe in my own merit. Nevermind his belief; I am damn good at my job. The last two days have been an outlier in every sense of the word. Workwise, that is. I’ve always had relatively decent boundaries when it comes to keeping my personal mess separate from my professional success. And yet, as much as I try to tell myself this is exactly what I wanted—that getting through this project is the key to securing my future—I continue to spiral.
By about ten thirty, I’ve convinced myself that this promotion is either some sort of coded apology from Noah, or a pity offer after yesterday’s happenings. Hoping to scrape my way back to equilibrium, I fantasize about confronting him and demanding to know why he gave me the job. I work through each snappy line I’d throw and find great satisfaction in the imagined look on his face when he realizes I’m not the kind to be bought off. I don’t rely on anyone, let alone men, and aside from the ride he arranged yesterday, I don’t need his favors. I’m not intimidated by attractive people, nor am I impressed by money or status. Sure, Noah is a hottie. You’d have to be blind to not see that. But he’s also just a guy, and I am Charlotte Fucking Wilde.
As if on cue, my inbox dings and I flip windows to find Noah’s name staring at me in bold. All the confidence I mustered in my daydreams fritters away when I slide my mouse over and open the message.
Noah G.
If you have a moment, I’d like to touch base.
No context. Fucking perfect. I let out a sigh and grab a notebook and pen before trudging across the floor. His door is shut and the knock I planned to be precise and resolute is, instead, hollow and weak.
“Come in.”
Pushing into the office, once used as a storage closet, it’s clear he’s made it his own. The windows behind his desk have one of the best views in the building, and I wonder—not for the first time—why it hasn’t before been claimed by one of the other members of the management team. There are still some moving boxes on the floor, but the shelves have been filled with books and other personal items. A collection of beautiful, smiling people stares down at me from framed photographs. Their faces remind me of my late night social media stalk and suddenly I can’t stop thinking about the way his body fills out the soft, forest green sweater he’s currently wearing. Noah’s brow is creased as he concentrates on something filling his desktop screen.
“Ah, yes. Charlotte. Thank you for making time for me.”
He looks up from the computer, and before I can stop myself I’m blurting out a much less eloquent version of my imagined confrontation.
“What is wrong with you?”
His eyebrows shoot up in surprise, but I can’t stop it. The glacier of thoughts I’ve been chiseling is already an avalanche rushing forth.
“What I mean is, what on earth do you think you're doing, picking me for this project? Because I’ve been sitting out there wracking my brain trying to figure out what would possibly prompt you to pick me over anyone else—especially after everything that’s happened over the last few days.” While I could stop here and let him explain, I continue to spiral, my words coming faster and faster. “Is this some sort of pity offer? Or maybe a punishment for my behavior at the bar the other night? Some weird way you want to keep tabs on me to make sure I’m behaving? Or worse, is it a sort of fucked up down payment for something you think I owe you? Because I’ve combed over everypossible reasoning, and aside from you being certifiable, none of it makes any sense.”
The tumble of words falls silent, the air between us chilled under an icy mountain of accusations, and Noah presses his fingertips together, resting his elbows on the desk. His face betrays nothing, and I straighten, realizing that in addition to calling him insane, I’ve accused him of about four different HR violations. I press my lips into a thin line, wishing I could evaporate, and wait to be fired. Noah takes a deep breath.
