He looks up from his computer. His face betrays nothing.
“Can I interrupt for a minute?” The words scrape against my throat. “There’s a section in the liability review I can’t make sense of.”
He leans back in his chair and studies me. I brace myself for a smug comment. A reminder that he offered to help yesterday, and I refused. An I-told-you-so delivered with that infuriating calm of his.
Instead, he just asks, “Which section?”
I swallow hard and explain, “The indemnification language. It conflicts with our standard agreements, but I don’t know how to flag the discrepancy.”
“Pull it up. Let me see.”
I return to my desk and open the document as he follows.
“Here.” I point to the relevant clause. “This paragraph specifically.”
He leans in to read, with one hand bracing on my desk. His shoulder hovers inches from mine. I focus on the screen and ignore the way his body heat seeps through the fabric of my shirt.
“Third-party liability transfer,” he explains after a moment. “They’re pushing risk onto us in case a subcontractor causes damage. Our standard position rejects these outright, but we can negotiate depending on the vendor’s strategic value.”
“So I flag it as unacceptable?”
“Flag it for legal review. Reference Section 12.3 in our standard agreement as the conflict point. Legal handles the rest.”
That’s it. A thirty-second explanation that would have saved me hours of frustration.
“What else?” he asks.
I hesitate. Three more clauses I couldn’t parse. Three more questions I was too proud to ask this morning.
“A few other spots,” I admit. “If you have time.”
“Show me.”
We work through each clause together. He explains without condescension, filling gaps in my knowledge with clear, practical guidance. By the time we’re done, the document finally makes sense.
“Thank you,” I tell him when he straightens up.
“You have less than two hours. Better get moving.”
No smugness. No commentary. Just a fact.
He returns to his desk, and I throw myself into the work. The clauses that confused me before now click into place. I flag issues, compile recommendations, and organize my findings with a speed that surprises even me. My photographic memory helps—once I understand a concept, I can recall every relevant detail without rechecking my notes.
I send the completed review to Marcus at 5:03 PM. Three minutes late, but thorough enough that I doubt anyone will complain.
I slump back in my chair and let out a long breath. Done. Finally done.
Except I’m not actually done. Marcus dropped off two more files this afternoon while I was buried in the liability review. They sit on my desk now, thick and accusatory, waiting for attention. The deadline isn’t until next week, but I’m already behind.
I should go home. Eat something. Sleep. Come back fresh tomorrow.
Instead, I open the first file and start reading.
Menlow left about half an hour ago. He grabbed his jacket without a word and walked out. I was too focused to acknowledge his departure, which suited me fine. The less we interact, the better.
The office is quiet now. Most of the building has cleared out. I like it this way—no distractions, no interruptions, and no witnesses to my stubborn determination.
I work through the first file and start on the second. My eyes burn and my neck aches, but I’m making progress.
