Emily’s eyes go wide, then narrow in delicious scandal. “Storm-Tattoo Guy?”
“Storm-Tattoo Guy,” I confirm, throat tight. “It was on his collar. Same lines, same placement. And should I believe it was just an accident that he was there? Well, I don’t. I feel like he played me.” Heat climbs my cheeks again.
Emily leans forward, all trace of flu forgotten. “Hecatfishedyou in person. Classy. So what exactly happened?”
I stir honey into my tea with vicious clinks. “We got stuck in the elevator. There was a kiss—huge kiss, the earth tilted—and then he hoisted me onto a safety rail, and things got… intense.” Her jaw drops; I raise a hand. “No sex. But enough to make a nun blush—or in my case, want to crawl into a dumpster.”
Emily processes, tapping a napkin. “And after light returned, you realized who he was.”
“Exactly. I bolted. Haven’t sprinted that fast since freshman dodgeball.”
She whistles. “Okay, gut check: are you angry because he pretended, or because you feel foolish for not seeing through it sooner?”
“Both,” I admit. “Plus betrayed, plus used, plus—ugh—still ridiculously attracted.”
Emily reaches across the table, squeezes my wrist. “Foolish isn’t on you. He wore a literal mask, and now metaphorical ones. Players perfect that act.”
I swallow. “I kept thinking he was different. When we talked about books, he felt… real.”
“Could still be real.” Her shoulders lift. “His lie by omission doesn’t automatically erase every moment you had. It does raise flags, though, which leads me to the next obvious question: what doyouwant?”
I exhale steam. “To finish this event without falling apart. And maybe to know the actual truth of what he wants from me.”
Emily hums knowingly, a physician diagnosing a self-perpetuating crush.
Just then my phone dings with a work email notification, curt and business-like. I flip it over:
New meeting invitation—Vivienne Clark.Subject line:Storm & Silence / Library Benefit — private discussion.
I frown. “Do I know a Vivienne Clark?” I wonder aloud, tapping open the details.
Emily shakes her head. “Sounds like a Bond girl.”
The invite is minimal but pointed:
Dear Ms. Davidson,
I represent Storm & Silence. I’d like ten minutes of your time tomorrow to finalize PR logistics surrounding the benefit and resolve a developing personnel matter.
Best,
Vivienne Clark
Director, Strategic Management
Storm & Silence Touring Ltd.
A tiny knot forms in my stomach—the phrasepersonnel matterfeels too sharp, too specific.
“Charity event stuff?” Emily guesses, reading my expression.
“Maybe. Or maybe Matt reported our elevator mishap to his higher-ups and I’m about to be lectured on inappropriate workplace conduct.” I swallow. “Either way, the library can’t afford burned bridges.”
Emily gives a thoughtful hum, then grins. “Take the meeting. Worst case, you stare down a corporate dragon; best case, you get intel on Mr. Tattoo.”
I hesitate only a second longer before typingAccepted. See you at 10 a.m.My thumb hovers, uneasy, then hits Send.
Email confirmed, I set the phone facedown and wrap both hands around my tea. The mug radiates heat I suddenly need.
