A moment later, a security guard appears. Solid. Polite. Entirely uninterested in desserts.
“This way,” he says.
I pick up the container and follow him, paper plates tucked under my arm. The lift ride is excruciating. Too quiet. Too reflective. My face in the mirrored wall looks like someone who should have stayed in bed.
The doors open onto a newsroom already in full swing. Phones ringing. Voices overlapping. Mugs everywhere. The guard steps out with me, pauses, then scans the room as if deciding who this problem belongs to next.
A man walks past carrying two cups and a notebook. He slows, takes in the sight of me standing there with a sealed container and disposable plates, then looks at the guard.
“Everything all right,” he asks.
“I’ve got someone here looking for Chloe,” the guard replies.
The man looks at me now. Properly. Curious, not alarmed.
“I’m AJ,” he says. “Local news. What’s going on.”
“Tom,” I reply. “I’m the chef at La Cucina di Rosa. Chloe’s doing the feature on us. I was trying to leave something for her.”
AJ nods slowly, taking that in. His gaze flicks briefly to what I’m holding, then back to my face.
“Right,” he says. “I know where she is.”
He turns to the guard. “I can take it from here, if that’s all right.”
The guard smiles. “Fine by me.”
“Thanks,” I say, genuinely.
AJ waits until the security guard is out of earshot, then looks at the container again. Slowly. Thoughtfully. Like a man filing something away for later amusement.
“She’s just over there.” AJ carefully points to my right with the hand holding both mugs.
“Thanks,” I say. “I can just leave it with you and you could—”
“Nah, I’m sure Chloe wants to thank you,” he replies with a look that can only be described as mischievous.
We walk between the desks. The newsroom hums around us, busy and unapologetic. Phones ringing. Someone swearing quietly at a screen. Mugs everywhere. I am acutely aware of how much I stand out, container in hand, plates tucked under my arm like I’ve made a series of questionable life choices.
AJ keeps pace beside me without comment for a few seconds. Then he glances ahead, then back at me.
“She’s having a morning,” he says.
I don’t answer.
He smiles faintly. “You can usually tell when someone’s running on caffeine and willpower.”
I focus very hard on not reacting.
We slow as Chloe comes into view, standing with the editor… Marie-Louise, I think was her name. Chloe’s arms are folded. Spine straight. Expression controlled with ease. She looks capable and self-assured, and I like that about her.
Then she looks up.
Her gaze lands on me.
The shift is immediate.
“What,” she says carefully, “are you doing here?”
