Quick looks. Smiles that lingered too long.
Then eyes dropped just as fast — because the bosses were in early, doors closed, voices low, that tensedon’t say anything until after lunchatmosphere thick in the air.
Beth glanced up from her desk.
Her eyes flicked to mine.
Then her mouth curved, slow and knowing.
So it wasn’t just us.
I shook my head once.
Later.
Phones rang. Keyboards clacked. No one said a word, but it buzzed under everything — the collective awareness that something had happened last night, and we’d all seen it.
By noon, Jim had already left for golf.
That was the release valve.
“Lunch,” Dan announced, popping up like he’d been waiting all morning. “Newbury. Outside. Right now.”
“I’ve got edits—” Beth started.
“Nope,” Chris cut in. “You’re coming. We earned this.”
I grabbed my jacket. “You’re all impossible.”
“And you,” Dan said, pointing at me, “arenotgetting out of this.”
Ten minutes later, we were wedged around a small café table on Newbury Street, sun cutting through the trees, traffic humming, menus untouched.
Boston in June — alive, unapologetic.
The second drinks hit the table, Dan leaned forward.
“Okay,” he said. “From the top.”
“There is no top,” I replied.
Chris laughed. “Bullshit. We all watched it happen.”
Beth nodded. “The entire bar felt it.”
Dan snapped his fingers. “She walked in, and you went quiet. Which never happens.”
“I did not go quiet.”
“You absolutely did,” Chris said. “You got this look. Like you were seeing someone across a crowded room in a movie.”
Beth smiled faintly. “We backed off on purpose.”
That made me pause.
“I noticed. And I appreciated that. Thanks.”
“Of course,” she replied. “We’re not idiots. Whatever that was… it wasn’t for us to interrupt.”
