“I’d love a latte before we start.” Spencer gestures with his eyes in the direction of the door, clearly trying his best to be polite while also telling me to fuck off. When I match his forced smile, I pivot on my heel in a robotic fashion and, once out of sight, stomp over to the coffee bar.
The metal cylinder is letting out a steady flow of steam. I squeeze in between the other assistants to make Spencer the worst coffee he’s ever tasted.
Five pumps of Irish cream–flavored syrup, check. I know he hates that after we stole a bottle of Baileys from the fridge at Christmas when we were fourteen and drank the entire thing in our bedroom. Spencer proceeded to throw up at the dinner table, all over his roast dinner.
Almond milk, he pretends to like it around his artiste friends but has an unusual disdain for the stuff so check.
Three sachets of artificial sweetener just to take it over the edge, check.
When I return, he’s still standing close and chatting away like old chums with Dominic, lifting on the balls of his feet to say something into Dominic’s ear. It’s the first time I’ve seen the usually stoic man smile in real life. He looks at the floor as he laughs; his teeth are perfect, straight, and white without looking like veneers. What would Spencer have said to get him to laugh like that?
I hand the coffee over to myhilariousboss and watch as hetakes a sip, trying to hide his obvious revulsion for the drink. I smile politely, “Will there be anything else,sir?”
“No, that’s all. Thank you,” he replies, his voice thicker than usual. He hands the cup back to me, the coffee spilling a patch onto my shirt.
I leave the backstage area once the main lights start to dim; now that the competition has heated up it’s “essential personnel only.” The auditorium is packed, with even more people attending than the first round. Meandering down through the aisle, I finally spot an empty seat right at the back, the rest of the row in shadow. As I get closer, I catch sight of Oliver sitting in the seat next to it.
I step forward, then hesitate. Turning around and then back to him as I look for any other seats at the back. Turning back, I find Oliver staring right at me, a bemused look on his face.
“Stop being weird and sit down,” he says quietly with a furrowed brow, holding his hand out to the empty seat. He glances at my outfit as I sit.
“I spilled coffee on my shirt,” I lie, cracking open my water bottle and taking a swig only for something to do with my hands.
“Seems like that’s a habit of yours,” he says, not looking away. His jaw is shadowed by the dimming auditorium lights. I watch his throat bob as his lips curve an imperceptible amount.
After a few seconds, Oliver’s scent reaches me. The peppery smell magnetizes me toward him, a feeling I actively have to fight.
Focus on Spencer.
I read my brother the riot act this morning as we were getting ready, including a list of things he specifically wasn’t allowedto say, plus a revised, more realistic version of his outrageous Round One pitch. My anxiety is as high as it was then. I trust that Spencer is going to do a good job; he can speak eloquently and command the stage, but ultimately I have no control of him. That fear combined with sitting next to Oliver’s magnetic presence makes my brain feel like it’s on a spit roast rotating over a campfire.
“Seems like these things only happen when you’re around,” I parrot, roll my eyes, and sink into the chair. Our arms brush, causing a thrill to jolt up my back. I take a sip of my normal cup, trying to reduce the heat swirling in my stomach.
He relaxes into his chair. “Awww, that’s sweet. You get distracted and clumsy around me; it’s understandable to lose executive functions when you’re turned on.”
I cough on my coffee, the spluttering drawing the attention of several people around us.
He pats me on the back as I lean forward, glancing around at the eyeballs on us. “She’s fine, just excited to see Dominic.”
A few people roll their eyes, shifting back to regain their comfortable position in their fold-down seats.
Oliver’s pats become slow circular strokes as my breathing levels out. Tracing his palm around until I lean back, the theater seat bouncing with the force. The final lights go down and the crowd begins to murmur.
“You okay?” he asks, his face shadowed.
“I’m fine,” I say, my cheeks flaming hot from the combination of limited airflow and embarrassment among my TechRumble peers.
Applause erupts as Dominic steps his Prada lace-ups ontothe stage. “Welcome to TechRumble Round Two. It’s fantastic to see so many familiar faces from Rome.”
I came to the conclusion that Spencer is better speaking on his own terms, instead of parroting my language.
I glance around at the crowd. They are so in awe of Dominic. Hard and stoic like the Zeus of tech bros. My eye cuts to Oliver, who isn’t really paying attention, leaning his chin on his palm as his elbow rests on the armrest between us. He must be so used to seeing this kind of spectacle.
“Of course, not everyone has made it this far. Starting with two hundred contenders, please give yourselves a round of applause for making it to the final fifty.”
How intense should I look right now? Obviously, the level of nervousness I actually feel isn’t appropriate. No assistant would look like their entire life depends on the outcome of this panel talk. Mirroring Oliver’s relaxed position I try to stop my foot from frantically tapping against the floor.
His breath brushes my neck as he leans over and whispers, “By the way, I’ve secured the ten minutes with Dominic.”
