I glance around. “Looks like work,” I say. “Which is better than looking finished and not doing any.”
She smiles, quick, unguarded, then tamps it down to professional. “That’s my entire aesthetic.”
“Work?” I ask.
“Doing it,” she says. “And then doing it again. Do you want anything to drink?” She grimaces. “Actually, I only have water.”
“I’m good.” I edge closer to the table, careful not to crowd. “May I?” She slides a sheet over. I read the headline and the first line, and it’s exactly the right tone. Simple and warm. “Good,” I say. “People respond to that.”
“Hope so,” she answers, tucking that loose strand behind her ear. It springs out again immediately.
“If not, I’ll rewrite till they do.” Her eyes lift to mine, and there’s a moment of quiet between us.
Finally, she asks, “Is there something I can do for you, Mr. Conti?”
Images flash in my mind. Forbidden, unwanted. Flesh sliding against flesh. A voice, helpless and insistent, against my ear.
“Roberto is fine,” I say. “And no. I was walking the floor.” I let that hang a beat, then tip my chin at her pages. “I wanted to see how this was going.”
She nods. “It’s going.” A quick smile. “Just working on the tone a bit. I might be a bit obsessive.” She scrunches her nose cutely.
I don’t tell her that she’s got the tone perfectly. I don’t tell her that her voice has been in my head all week.
“That’s not a bad thing in your profession,” I say.
“It isn’t,” she says. “Not when it keeps me from shortcuts.” She taps the edge of the page, then looks back at me. “Caterina asked me to lead with welcome, not defense. It’s a thin line, telling people they can’t come but trying to be welcoming with it.”
“Draw the line but don’t offer any apologies,” I say. “Focus on the welcome. Don’t say ‘you’re not allowed in.’ Just let them know we’re holding the door open for them. The next day. If anyone wants to argue, they’ll end up looking bad, not us. We’re just serving our community.”
Her mouth curves. “That helps.” She jots it, then meets my eyes. “I’ll tune the rest to match. I’ll loop Caterina—and I’ll copy you on the drafts.”
“Do that,” I say, and I know our time here is up. But I don’t want to leave just yet. “You’ll have a door soon?”
Why would I ask that?
“That’s the rumor.” She lifts a shoulder. “They’ll be painting in the next couple of days, then finishers, then a door. Then furnishings. Or maybe furniture first? I’m not sure. Until then, I have an open floor plan and a plastic chair that starts snapping at me when I sit on it for more than five minutes.”
I frown. “The door can’t be fast-tracked, but the chair can be changed,” I say before I can talk myself out of it. “I’ll have Facilities find you a real chair.”
“Oh, that’s not what I meant,” she says, a bit panicked. “I don’t mean to complain. I was just… making a stupid joke.”
“It’s not a complaint. It’s a fixable problem,” I say, matter-of-factly. “Plus, self-interest.”
Her brows lift. “Self-interest?”
“Yeah, if your back gives out, my inbox fills up.”
She laughs, quick and surprised.
It’s not polite or measured; it breaks out of her like a small, bright flare. Head tipped, eyes crinkling at the corners, shoulders loosening as the sound slips free. It’s warm,unguarded, the kind of laugh that makes a house seem less empty and a long day more bearable.
It hits me square in the chest, jolting me. Followed by the instinct to hear it again. I shut the gate on that. Boundaries exist for a reason, and I’m the one who drew most of them.
“Well, I wouldn’t want that,” she says with a grin still on her face. “I’ll graciously accept a new chair if they can find one. Thanks.”
I answer with the smallest nod, step back to the threshold because if I don’t, I won’t.
“Welcome to the chaos,” I say.
