My mouth goes dry. Sam doesn’t use emergency codes for low toner. This either means I’ve royally screwed over a client or . . . possibly hobby notepad-related? Either option is equally panic-inducing.
I push my chair back so fast it spins, and bolt out the door into the hall, jumping back when I nearly collide with?—
Mother of pearl.Garrett.
“Where’s the fire?” he asks. With eye contact. And a crooked grin. My stomach is suddenly swimming with live eels.
“Oh, uh—just excited to talk with Sam about the Corren project.”
He raises an eyebrow, and his whole face shifts, turning into something new. That’s the thing about Garrett. I swear he must’ve been the one popular theater kid in high school. His entire being is a study in character. “That’s exciting to you?”
I smooth my hair, scoffing. “Not likeexciting, exciting, if you know what I mean.”What the hell was I saying? To a guy I worked with?“I mean, I’m just—”Don’t say excited, any other word but excited.“Arous—”NOT THAT ONE!“Motivated to build that relationship. I think it will open the door to other opportunities in the tech space.”
Sweat trickles between my boobs. I pray my neck isn’t breaking out in hives, but my skin is already starting to itch. I give it three minutes before I need calamine.
He taps his Apple pencil against his forefinger. “Nice. I agree.” Garrett gives me one last look, then strides into his office.
I agree?He made a joke, smiled at me,andagreed? This was quickly becoming a day for the history books.
I rush down the hall and slide into Sam’s office, but before I can word vomit the past five minutes, I process the expression on her face. “What happened?”
She winces. “I’m so sorry, A.”
“What?” I stumble to the chair in front of her desk, my mind spiraling through worst-case possibilities. Did I forget an order? Send a personal email to a client? That happened once before, and I’m already reliving the shame of telling a reporter from 9 News that I was expecting my period on Tuesday.
Sam motions to a chair in front of her desk. “You should sit down.”
“Sam, I swear?—”
“I’m serious.”
I drop into the upholstered swivel egg, holding her gaze like we are in a staring contest to the death.
When I think I might spontaneously combust, Sam finally blows out a breath. “I know who it is.”
two
I blink,Sam’s words sitting on the surface before finally sinking in. “Wait. You mean?—?”
She nods, biting her lip. “Garrett met her in the breakroom. They talked. He ran his hand through his hair?—”
I gasp, my hand flying to cover my mouth. Each of those three data points is shocking in its own right. Garrett doesn’t loiter in the breakroom, nor does he meet people and chat.
Sam’s smile is apologetic. “He offered to carry a signboard that looked like it weighed less than my left sandal to the admin desk. For her.”
Who was this vixen? This fictional woman who could inspire such out-of-pocket behavior? “What the hell, Sam? Say the damn name!”
“You’re not going to like it.”
“Well, I don’t especially enjoy sitting in purgatory, either!”
“It’s Megan.” She says the name like she’d recently read it on an obituary.
My body goes rogue. First, my stomach plummets like an elevator cable snapped. Then my throat clenches shut as if I’d eaten a pound of shellfish for lunch.
Megan is one of our top designers. If I didn’t already have a crush on Garrett, she would be next on my list. Not only can she put together creatives that turn me into a seagull spotting something shiny, but she is the closest thing to a Sidney Sweeney look-alike I’ve ever seen.
Soft, dirty blond hair that hits the middle of her back. Perfect hourglass figure. Doe eyes and high cheekbones.
