I type:
“The upcoming Valentine’s Issue will focus on..."
Nope. Deleting.
“Love is in the..."
Delete. Delete. DELETE.
I take a deep breath.
Okay. Professional. You’re a professional. You can do this.
I crack my knuckles. Refocus. Ready.
My brain:
He chose you.
He said don’t run.
He said he’ll follow.
He smelled good in the hallway.
You want him.
“NO I DO NOT,” I whisper at my computer.
Ava peeks over the cubicle wall. “Talking to your monitor? Healthy babe. Very stable.”
I throw a pen at her. She dodges. Barely.
I bury my face in my hands.
I can still feel it, the warmth of his fingers brushing mine. I can still hear his voice, low, certain, entirely too intimate:
“This is the beginning of everything.”
My chest tightens.
Oh god.
Me.
Working with him.
Alone.
In rooms.
With chairs.
And tables.
And gravity.
I’m going to die.
