I cringe. “Is it that obvious?”
She shrugs, her attention on the stream of liquid filling my mug. “To someone who catalogs micro-expressions for fun—yeah.”
I lean against the counter with a sigh.
“Was it the meeting with your dad?” She retrieves my filled mug and hands it over.
“How’d you guess?” I accept her offering with a half-hearted smile and walk past her, not ready for more of her forensic-level people-reading. “He wants me to retract my statement. Today. I have until five o’clock.”
“Yikes.” Her footsteps follow. “What are we going to do?”
We.
God, I love her commitment to camaraderie, even when the ship’s on fire and I’m the one strapped to the wheel.
“I’m not backing down.” I move behind my desk and sink into the chair.
“And I’m sure that will go over brilliantly.” She nods, her gaze lazily sweeping my spacious office like we’re not actively discussing the implosion of my entire career. “Want me to prepa backup plan in case your radio silence doesn’t slap the way you want it to?”
“Would it involve Raffael Cavallo’s head on a spike?” I take a gulp of coffee and groan at the delicious hit of caffeine.
“That’s definitely an option. Although, death by poison would require far less cleanup.”
I grin despite myself. “Why do I feel like that’s something you’ve actually researched?”
“Maybe because this brain runs seventeen tabs at once, and none of them like to idle. Deep dives on obscure topics are basically my love language.”
And how I adore her for it. Still, asking her to create a backup plan to manage my problems isn’t something I can ask her to do.
“Thanks, but I think I need to survey this crash site on my own.”
She throws me a pitying look, sad, pouty lips and deep ocean eyes that screammen are such assholes.“You sure?”
I nod. “Positive.”
She doesn’t budge. Just stands there, watching me with that hyper-focused stare.
“There’s no need for the human lie-detector routine. I’m okay. I’ll figure it out.”
“Well, if you change your mind…” She starts for the door.
“You’re the first person I’ll call.”
She’s theonlyperson I’d call.
I don’t trust anyone else in the office. Not with my pride or my insecurities.
The rest of the day drags.
Back-to-back meetings. Passive-aggressive emails. Clients doubting my readiness. Colleagues testing my resolve.
I’m no closer to figuring out a plan to appease my father by the time lunch rolls around.
I eat at my desk, the salad limp and flavorless.
2:45 p.m.
Each glance at the clock winds my tension tighter, the lack of communication from my father pressing in like a held breath.
