“I’m not a locksmith.”
“You own the building. Call someone.”
I pulled out my phone and dialed maintenance, keeping my eyes on her the whole time. She was pressed against the door like she could phase through it if she tried hard enough.
“Twenty minutes,” I said after I hung up. “Maybe thirty. Maintenance is dealing with something on another floor.”
Her face went through approximately seven different emotions in the span of two seconds. Disbelief. Horror. Fury. Something that looked almost like panic. And underneath all of it, something else—something she was trying very hard to hide.
“I’m trapped in your office,” she said flatly.
“It would appear so. This is a nightmare.”
I laughed. I couldn’t help it. “It’s a jammed door, not the apocalypse. You don’t need to look at me like I’m about to attack you.”
“I’m not—” She stopped, pressed her lips together, and seemed to be counting to ten in her head. “Fine. Fine. I’ll just… wait.”
She moved away from the door and positioned herself against the far wall, as far from me as the office allowed. Arms crossed. Spine rigid. Looking everywhere except at me.
The silence stretched between us, thick and charged.
I loosened my tie. The office really was warm, and I was enjoying her discomfort more than I should have. I pulled the tie free from my collar and started unbuttoning the top of my shirt.
“What are you doing?” Her voice came out higher than normal.
“Removing my tie.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m warm.” I draped the tie over my chair and met her eyes, letting the corner of my mouth curve upward. “Why? What did you think I was doing?”
“Nothing.”
“You look terrified.”
“I’m not terrified.”
“You’re pressed against the wall like you’re expecting me to ravish you.”
The flush on her cheeks turned crimson. It was magnificent. I wanted to trace the path of it with my fingers, my mouth, wanted to see how far down it went and what sounds she would make if I followed it.
“You wish,” she said, but her voice came out breathless, and we both heard it.
“A man and a woman, trapped in an office,” I said, leaning against my desk and keeping my distance even though every instinct screamed at me to close it. “Alone. No escape. These things tend to end one way in the movies.”
“This isn’t a movie.”
“No?”
“No. This is a workplace. And you’re my boss. And if you think for one second that I would ever, under any circumstances?—”
“Who said anything about that?” I smiled—slow and deliberate. “I was making an observation about fictional tropes. You’re the one whose mind went there.”
Her mouth parted open again. “I—that’s not—you implied?—”
“I implied nothing. I stated a fact about narrative conventions.” I tilted my head, watching her squirm. “Interesting that your brain jumped straight to that conclusion, though. What does that say about what you’re thinking about, Pauline?”
“I’m not thinking about anything.”
