“Honestly, getting out of this thing will probably solve all my life problems,” she shouts from her bedroom. “Maybe I’m not hangry—I’m booby-trapped.”
Once we’re both braless and in pajamas, with Thai takeoutin our hands, Lena and I sink into our cozy sectional, curled up with weighted blankets and glasses of sparkling water. Plants cover every surface and hang in the windows of our living room. It’s our little jungle oasis, hidden from the rest of the world.
“How did your day go?” Lena asks over her box of chicken pad Thai.
I recount the parking lot events, and Lena’s eyes grow wider with every detail until she can’t stay quiet anymore. “Mills. That’s wild.” She sets her food down and faces me. “Dr. Black Hole is in charge of whether or not you get a promotion?”
I swallow my bite. “He’s not inchargeof it, but he is one of the people on the committee, yes.”
Lena lets out a squeal of delight. “This is perfect. Do you think you could take a picture of him for me?” Lena pleads with sad puppy eyes. “I need a visual when I’m examining this story. The way you’re describing him, he’s giving hot-professor vibes.”
I adamantly ignore the fact that she is a little bit right in her imagery and roll my eyes. “Yeah, sure. Next time he’s frowning at me, I’ll tell him to hold that pose while I snap a photo for you.”
“Wonderful. Thank you.” She pats my leg. “Now tell me about the interview.”
***
The heavy clouds outside give the museum a dark, introspective mood as I run through the doors the next morning. I hurry past Eleanor and the gift shop manager with a quick greeting and wave—too late to visit.
I rush down the entomology hallway, past the display room, the archive collection, and laboratory rooms, and stumble into our office. As I pass my assistant curator Micah’s desk and roundmine, my eyes land on a coffee cup with Maggie’s logo printed on the side, sitting atop a green Post-it with neat handwriting.
I’m sorry about your coffee.
—F
Setting my bag on the ground, I pick up the cup. The warmth of its contents seeps into my fingers as I turn it around to check the label.
Americano with vanilla syrup and half-and-half. Exactly the way I like it.
My brows stitch together. He must’ve noticed my order when he threw my cup away Monday morning.
I take a tentative sip, and the earthy, sweet taste is absolutely perfect on my tongue.
Confusion prickles in my mind. This is an odd gesture, especially for the man who has grumbled and glared at me every moment since we met. The sharp change from yesterday feels a bit like whiplash.
With a flick of my computer mouse, I wake the monitor and open a new email.
TO: Finn Ashford
FROM: Millie Oaks
SUBJECT: Coffee
Good morning,
I arrived at my office to find a coffee on my desk. The note is signed by “F.” Would that perhaps be you? I’ve spilledcoffee on so many people this week, so I’m not certain it’s from you.
If it was not you, then this is awkward, and please disregard.
If this coffee is from you, thank you. It’s delicious.
Sincerely,
Millie Oaks
Curator, Entomology Department
I read through it a few times to make sure it seems like a standard thank-you email. It passes my inspection, so I click send before I can overthink it.
