I scowl down at it. “If you keep this up, I swear to God, I will replace you with a French press and some emotional resilience.”
Maya leans against the counter, arms folded, sipping her latte with the grace of someone who has never known struggle. “You realize if that thing had feelings, it would have already filed a hostile work complaint against you, right?”
I jab the reset button, punishing it. The shrieking stops, replaced by a mocking silence that’s somehow worse. “It deserves it. It’s sabotaging my entire existence.”
She quirks a brow. “You mean your under-caffeinated meltdown, or the one where your bun is auditioning to be a sad houseplant?”
My fingers fiddle with said bun, which is barely clinging to life. “Stop judging me.”
Maya gives me a once-over, lips twitching. She’s trying not to laugh. Good for her in her effortlessly casual outfit of jeans, super cute fitted blazer, and tousled blonde waves that all belong in a lifestyle blog.
Meanwhile, I’m giving off “unhinged barista” vibes.
She sets her drink down. “Alright. Spill. You’re losing it and trying to pass it off as espresso rage. What’s really going on?”
I sigh and take a too-long sip of coffee that is both scalding and underwhelming. “Bone Dust is threatening to pull out of the campaign. Apparently, it ‘lacks emotional resonance.’ Which, as you know, is corporate for ‘we have no idea what we want, but we’d like to blame someone.’”
“Oof.” She winces. “Want me to draft an email that politely tells them to shove it?”
“As satisfying as that would be, I don’t think Laurel would appreciate a lawsuit before lunch.”
“Okay, but just say the word. My middle name is Petty. With a capital P,” she says, popping the “P.”
Before I can answer, my phone buzzes.Laurel.
Meeting. My office.
I pale.
Maya leans in. “Oh no. Is it...?”
I hold up the screen. “It’s about the Asher Cross thing. She’s going to skin me alive.”
“She’ll get over it,” Maya says quickly. “You landed the hottest man on earth’s attention and impressed half the industry. You should be getting a bonus.”
“Yeah? Well, I got a flaming-hot email thread that included the phrases ‘reckless,’ ‘not a PR stunt,’ and my personal favorite—‘laughing stock.’”
Maya smirks. “At least you got areaction.That’s better than half the firm.”
I force a laugh, the nerves still rattling like dice in my chest.
“Hey.” Her voice softens. “You’ve got this. You were a badass. Asher was into it. Laurel will calm down. Just… own it.”
Nodding, I slowly exhale. “Yeah. Okay. Enough about my potential public execution. Let’s talk about you and your stalker.”
Her brows knit. “Stalker?”
“Asher Cross,” I say, sing-song sweet. “Six-foot-plus, devastating jawline, and currently asking me more questions about you than TMZ.”
Maya groans. “There is nomeand Asher Cross.”
“Yet.”
She looks around to make sure we’re alone and replies in a low tone. “I’m serious, Rorie. I don’t know if I could handle someone like that. The scrutiny. The flashing cameras. I’d end up hiding in a supply closet for the rest of my life.”
“Babe,” I say, softening, “youdo notbelong in a supply closet. You belong at the center of the room. The center of someone’s world.”
She scoffs.
