"We can share our story," I say. "But we'd still want to be fairly private about the details."
"And accurate," George adds.
Marissa's mouth curves. "Private and accurate is my favorite kind of story."
Evelyn closes the folder with the quiet finality of someone who has successfully managed twelve simultaneous crises before breakfast. "We'll revisit after the prince case is underway."
The room shifts back into the clean forward motion of work, and I feel the ground solidify under my feet.
My phone lights up on the table. George's name glowing against the glass. I glance at it for exactly one second. I turn it face down, pick up my stylus, and continue. But the smile that touches the edge of my mouth doesn't fade.
We spend the next forty minutes building the shortlist, and somewhere in the middle of it George and I fall into a rhythm that feels less like professional negotiation and more like thinking in the same direction. He offers a data point; I read the person behind it; he adjusts; we move forward. It is, I realize, not unlike falling in love with him. Iterative. Surprisingly efficient.
"Are we sure," Marissa says, almost to herself, eyes still on her notepad, "that you two don't want to spend the afternoon gossiping with me instead? I want every detail about how you ended up back together. I have theories."
"I'm working," I say, and I mean it completely, and I'm also smiling, and both of those things are simultaneously true.
"I'll tell you all about it, Marissa," Noah adds, without looking up from his documents, in the tone of a man who has been quietly paying attention this whole time.
Evelyn allows herself one small, composed smile and says nothing. Which, from Evelyn, is practically a standing ovation.
The meeting closes and the room empties slowly, voices trailing out into the hallway.
George is the last one still at the table when I reach down for my things, and for a moment it's just the two of us and the residual hum of a room that held a lot of information and managed it well.
"Lunch later?" he asks.
"Yes," I say, and pick up my tablet, and walk back out into the office that looks exactly the same as it did this morning.
It turns out being in love didn't make me worse at my job. It just gave me better data.
