“Your face suggests otherwise.”
“My face is none of your business.”
“Your face is the most interesting thing in this building. And I own the building. So I’d say that makes it very much my business.”
She stared at me, and I watched something shift behind her eyes. The anger was still there, but it was warring with something else now—confusion, maybe. Or curiosity. Or the same pull I felt every time I was in the same room as her, that gravity that had existed between us since the first moment I really saw her.
“You’re insufferable,” she said, but there was less venom in it than before.
“I’ve been called worse.”
“By who?”
“By you, mostly. Over the years. In my imagination.” I unbuttoned one more button on my shirt, watched her eyes flick down to the exposed skin before she caught herself. “I’ve had a lot of imaginary arguments with you. You’re very creative with insults in my head.”
“This is insane.”
“Probably.” I pushed off from the desk and took a step toward her. Just one. “But here we are.”
She didn’t move. Didn’t retreat. Just stood there with her back against the wall and her eyes locked on mine, and for amoment—just a moment—I saw something crack in her armor. Something vulnerable underneath all that fury.
Then a knock sounded at the door.
“Maintenance,” a voice called through the wood.
The moment shattered. Pauline’s walls slammed back into place so fast I almost got whiplash watching it happen.
The next few minutes were a blur of tools and apologies and explanations about faulty mechanisms. The repairman did something to the lock, tried the handle, and the door swung open like it had never been stuck at all.
Pauline was moving before he finished his explanation, practically sprinting for freedom. She caught her heel on the threshold and stumbled forward, and I caught her elbow without thinking—just a brief touch, steadying her, my fingers wrapped around her arm for maybe two seconds.
She looked up at me with wild eyes.
“Careful,” I said quietly.
She yanked her arm free and disappeared down the hallway without another word.
I stood there listening to her heels click rapidly into the distance, and then I laughed. The whole thing was absurd—the jammed door, the panic, the way she’d looked at me like I was dangerous and irresistible in equal measure.
Whatever had gone wrong between us—whatever had made her run all those years ago—the connection was still there. Buried under layers of hurt and anger and stubborn pride, but alive.
She wasn’t indifferent to me. Not even close.
And now I just had to figure out how to reach her.
CHAPTER 8
Pauline
Alice Pearson had beeninsufferable all week, and I finally understood why.
The whispers had started three days ago, right after Jack Specter walked across the newsroom floor and set a cup of coffee on my desk.
I hadn’t wanted him to bring me anything, let alone doing it while everyone watched and wondered.
“The new boss’s favorite.”
I’d heard that phrase a few times, that’s what they were calling me. I’d heard it in the break room, caught the sideways glances, noticed the way conversations stopped when I walked past.
