“I’m sorry,” I say immediately. “I tried to leave something at reception. They sent me upstairs.”
Marie Louis’s eyebrow lift, just slightly. “And what is it you’re trying to leave?”
“It’s Tiramisu,” I say. “Chloe didn’t get a proper chance to try it last night. I’d only just assembled it. I thought it might help for context.”
Chloe closes her eyes briefly.
“This,” she says evenly, “was not discussed.”
“No,” I agree. “It wasn’t.”
AJ lets out a quiet sound that might be a laugh and might be a cough.
Marie-Louise looks from him to the container again, then back to me. Her expression shifts, not to suspicion, but to something more measured.
“That’s very thoughtful,” she says. “Thank you.”
Chloe’s eyes snap open.
“There should be enough for everyone,” I add quickly. “Please tell me you’ve got a fridge, because this needs to stay cool.”
“Of course,” Marie-Louise says. “No sense letting it sit out until thelunch break.”
She turns without hesitation. “Chloe, would you mind showing Tom to the staff room. There’s a fridge there.”
Chloe stiffens. Just for a fraction of a second.
“I’m actually—” she starts, then stops herself. She turns instead to AJ. “Could you take him?”
AJ flashes her a cheeky grin. “I would,” he says with a wink, “but I’m on a call in about thirty seconds.”
He gestures vaguely towards a desk, where a phone is sitting.
“Of course you are,” Chloe says flatly.
AJ smiles, unapologetic. “Tragic timing.”
Marie-Louise is already moving on, mentally filing the moment as resolved. “Thank you, Chloe.”
“Yes sure. No problem," Chloe says, voice cool and perfectly professional. “This way.”
She turns without looking at me.
I follow, container in hand, plates tucked under my arm, acutely aware that this is no longer a public interaction. The newsroom noise fades behind us as we head back towards the lifts and into the staff room.
It’s empty.
I cross to the fridge and open it, the hum loud in the quiet. As I slide the container onto a shelf, I glance over my shoulder and catch her standing there, arms folded so tightly the tension practically creaks.
“Why are you here,” she says.
I straighten and close the fridge door. “The Tiramisu.”
She lets out a short, disbelieving laugh. “I did try it yesterday, if you remember.”
“I remember,” I say. “You tried a spoonful of something that had been assembled for approximately five seconds.”
I grin before I can stop myself.
