“I like getting a head start.”
She peels a yellow sticky note from her collection and presses it to the stack of papers in front of me without a word.
Check-in with Becca, 9:30 a.m.
It’s underlined. Twice.
I raise a brow. “You leaving notes for me now?”
She doesn’t even glance my way. “You forgot that meeting yesterday. Consider it damage control.”
“I didn’t forget,” I say, leaning back in my chair. “Something else came up.”
She hums, a small sound of disbelief, and sticks another note to her laptop lid, pink this time.
Draft 2 — presentation slides.
Jesus Christ. It’s like her brain runs on stationery.
She still hasn’t so much as looked at me. I should be irritated. Iamirritated. But there’s something about the way she moves, efficient and unflustered, that makes it hard to look away.
“You always this organized?” I ask, aiming for casual.
She finally lifts her gaze, eyes cool and assessing. “You say that like it’s an insult.”
“It’s an observation. You know there are apps for that now, right?” I ask, lifting the corner of the yellow sticky note with my fingertip. “It’s not 1999. You can?—”
“This works for me,” she says, cutting me off. “I like knowing things won’t fall apart if someone, say, forgets to show up for a meeting.”
I grin. “You’re not gonna let that go, are you?”
“Just trying to help,” she says, peeling off another note — green this time — and sticking it on her notebook.
Client brief: finalize tone.
I shake my head. “Cove has the best technology money can buy. You don’t have to rely on tiny paper squares.”
“I know.” She doesn’t look up.
“And yet, here we are.” I rub a hand over my jaw, fighting a smile.
The conversation ends there, at least out loud. But in the silence that follows, I feel it again — that pull. It’s the same one that hits me in every meeting, every hallway run-in. It’s the feeling I can’t seem to shake, no matter how many times I remind myself that she’s just an employee.
Because the truth is, she’s not. But she is, and it’s confusing as hell. I can’t put a finger on why she feels like more to me.
She’s the first person in years who doesn’t look at me like the person whose signature is on their pay-checks, like someone they should try to impress. She looks at me like I’m just another guy who could — and probably will — mess something up.
I should hate it. I should hate her for it. But as she flips through her notes and murmurs something under her breath about “adjusting the timeline for campaign assets,” all I can think about is how badly I want to lean in and make her mess up that perfect focus.
Ford’s voice breaks the thought, followed by the sound of his footsteps heading our way. Madeline straightens, her hands resting neatly on the keyboard.
And me? I do what I always do. I hide behind a grin, like she’s not the only person in this building who can completely unnerve me without even trying.
“That’s my cue,” she says, sliding her notebook into her bag. “I promised Becca I’d send the revised mock-up before the meeting.”
“Right,” I say, wishing I could think of something that might make her stay. “Don’t let me keep you.”
She looks at me then for just a second, and there’s no forced smile, no sarcastic bite in her eyes before she nods once and stands. And then she’s gone, the soft click of her heels echoing down the hall.
