"I need five minutes to catch you up on the Drake situation," he says. "Preferably somewhere without six interns pretending not to listen."
I close the spreadsheet I've been working on. "Where?"
***
There's a small Italian restaurant down the street. It has dark wood, good bread, tables far enough apart that a conversation stays a conversation. Noah orders without looking at the menu, which tells me he's been here before on someone else's expense account.
"You're only bringing me along so you can write it off as a business lunch," I say.
He doesn't deny it.
We get through the Drake situation quickly enough. His accuser dropped the lawsuit entirely, which is a relief.
Noah tears a piece of bread in half and lets a beat of silence go by, which is never a good sign.
"The office is noticing you and Tessa," he says, as though this is a logistics update.
I keep my eyes on my water glass. "The office should focus on client retention metrics."
"That's difficult for a group of adults who spend all day pairing people into couples." He sets down the bread. "And Tessa looks at you like there is something there."
My jaw tightens. It does this without my permission. "That's called professional respect."
"George." He says my name with the weary patience of a man who has known me too long. "Stop fooling yourself."
I change the subject to the Harrington account. Noah lets me, graciously, but the smile doesn't leave his face for the rest of the meal.
I eat half my pasta thinking about the wordmatter, which is an embarrassing use of a perfectly good lunch.
***
Back at my desk, I pull up the ERS compatibility metrics on my second monitor. I need something to do with my hands, something to do with my mind.
The numbers are strong. Client satisfaction scores up eleven percent. Two couples moving toward contract extension. The framework is performing exactly as designed, which should feel satisfying in the clean, uncomplicated way that a well-built model always does.
It doesn't.
I find myself scanning the variables I built the system around: shared values, logistical compatibility, conflict resolution style, long-term goal alignment. Each one defensible. Each one measurable. I designed this framework over three years, refinedit across hundreds of client pairings, and I stand behind every variable in it.
None of them account for the specific way this office feels quieter and louder at the same time when Tessa is in it.
I open a blank document, type four words, and then delete them before I've finished reading them back to myself.
***
She knocks twice on my open door at four fifteen, holding a printout of the Calloway logistics, one shoulder leaning against the doorframe in a way that suggests she's been on her feet all afternoon and is allowing herself this one small economy of posture.
I scan the page. Timelines, guest movement estimates, contingency notes in the margins in her small and precise handwriting.
"It looks acceptable," I say.
"Thanks for looking it over," she says, and she's watching me in the way she sometimes does, like she's reading something just below the surface of whatever I've said.
I hand the folder back without comment. Something must shift in my expression, because she tilts her head slightly, and I have the uncomfortable sensation of being understood by someone who wasn't given permission to do so.
"You okay?" Her voice drops a register, quieter than a moment ago.
"Fine," I say. "Long day."
