The elevator doors chime open, and I poke my head out like I’m testing for danger, eyes sweeping the hallway. Late on day two, because apparently, I collect workplace disasters the way other people collect refrigerator magnets. If I stay silent, if I move fast, maybe they won’t notice I’m late. Maybe I can make it to my desk before anyone looks up.
The coast is clear. No Jake in sight. My shoulders loosen up a little. After yesterday’s coffee disaster, I’d rather wrestle an alligator than be anywhere near Jake in this building.
I tiptoe through the sleek corridors of Lanter Bridge, stilettos clutched in one hand while my stocking-covered feet glide silently across the polished floor. No need to alert anyone to my presence just yet.
The office sits eerily empty, computer screens glowing and abandoned. No clicking keyboards, no ringing phones, no hushed conversations about weekend plans. Has everyone vanished? Been abducted? Joined a sudden flash mob in the parking lot?
Keeping my head down and my presence small, I scurry toward my desk, but as I round the corner, voices drift toward me. I freeze mid-step.
Through the half-open door to my left, Amanda’s pristine bob catches the fluorescent light as she leans in toward Tim, the second man who’d been there during my interview.
My breath catches. I shouldn’t listen. I should walk away, clear my throat, make some awkward noise, announce myself like a decent person. Instead, I flatten my back to the wall and try to become part of the décor, blending in with the expensive office art while I strain to catch their words.
“We just need to make sure he doesn’t get the promotion,” Amanda mutters, her voice tight with something that sounds dangerously like desperation.
Promotion? The word sparks in my brain like a struck match, curiosity flaring before I can smother it. I’m still learning the office hierarchy, still sorting faces and titles and who outranks whom, but the tension between them is unmistakable. I find myself wondering, all too eagerly, whose promotion is on the line.
“Relax. I’ve got it covered,” Tim replies in an equally hushed tone.
“Just don’t screw up,” Amanda says. “This has to work.”
My arms shift, nerves making me clumsy, and my elbow clips a framed award on the wall. Instinct takes over. I lunge for it, arms flailing, scrambling to catch it before it falls and announces me to the entire floor. The frame slides an inch, scraping against thewall with a sound that might as well be a gunshot in the hush of the hallway.
“Did you hear that?” Tim’s voice drops to a suspicious whisper.
Panic explodes in my chest like fireworks. My career flashes before my eyes—started on Monday, caught spying on Tuesday, unemployed by Wednesday. A Guinness world record.
“Sarah?”
I nearly leap out of my skin, whirling to my right, and there he is, just feet away—Jake holding two coffee cups like he belongs in every corner of my life. He looks unfairly put-together in his suit, as if he didn’t spend last night haunting my thoughts. His eyebrows lift, slow and pointed.
Adjusting the frame with what I hope resembles casualness rather than guilt, I paste on a smile. “Oh, nothing. Just...fixing this frame. It was crooked.”
To make matters worse, Tim and Amanda step out of the room. Their gazes sweep over me as they pass, cool and assessing, and I don’t need a handbook to translate it. I’m on their hit list. Before they head toward the elevators, Amanda pauses just long enough to tell Jake she’ll see him upstairs.
Jake gives a nod, and his mouth twitches, dimples threatening as he steps closer. He holds out one of the coffee cups to me. “Cream and sugar,” he says softly. “Just the way you like it.”
“Oh. Thanks.” Heat flares across my cheeks as I take the cup, my gaze dropping to the floor tiles. Nothing says professional quite like an ex remembering your coffee order after yesterday’s spectacular humiliation. “How’s your—“ I start, then falter, the word I’m avoiding sitting heavy on my tongue.
“My lap?” Jake grins wide, those dimples I once traced with my fingertips making their unwelcome comeback. “Slight redness, but I’ll survive.”
I cringe so hard I wish my soul would leave my body to spare me the embarrassment.
“Sorry about that,” I mumble, wishing the floor would open up and swallow me whole.
“Don’t worry. At least it wasn’t hot enough to cause permanent damage.”
My gaze drops to my socks, and I study them with the intensity of a scientist discovering a new species. “Glad to hear it,” I say. Please, universe. I beg for salvation in any form. A bomb threat. A fire drill. A sudden evacuation. Anything to get me the heck out of here.
He gestures down the hall, utterly unfazed by my mortification, like I’m not standing here quietly combusting. “We’ve got a big meeting on the top floor,” he says. “Judy called everyone in. It’s the important one.”
“Important how?”
“You’ll see,” he says. “Come on. Everyone’s already on the top floor.” Then he turns and walks away, leaving me staring after him with confusion lodged in my throat and far too many unresolved feelings crawling under my skin.
I glance at the coffee in my hand and pop the lid. Inside, the foam has been doctored into a little message: Spill-proof, and beside it, a cheeky wink emoji. I stare at it, heat creeping up my neck. I have no one to blame but myself for this one.
Moments later, I step onto the top floor, and my breath catches at the wealth pressed into every surface. Marble floors gleam beneath soft, recessed lighting, each polished square throwing my uncertain face back at me in clear reflections. Original artwork lines the wide hallway on both sides. One of these paintings probably costs more than my entire college education.
