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“Halston.”

“You had your hand in your secretary’s hair while standing between her legs, but I’m escalating.”

Elise lets out another cry as Grant’s face flushes.

“This was a mistake,” he says.

“A mistake.”

“Yes.”

I nod. “Did you trip?”

His brows furrow. “What?”

“Did you trip and land there?”

“Don’t do this.”

“Was there a wet floor sign missing?”

“Halston.”

“Because from where I’m standing, Grant, it looks like several decisions happened in a row.”

His nostrils flare.

There was a time when the look on his face would have made me back down. Not because I was afraid of him, but because I hated disappointing people. I hated making rooms uncomfortable and I really hated being the reason someone became closed off.

My mom used to say I came into the world wanting applause and stayed because I liked the lighting. She meant it fondly, I think.

Grant used to call me vivid. At first, I thought he meant I was colorful. Full of life.

Later, I learned he meant exhausting.

Now, standing in his beautiful office with coffee soaking into my boots, I realize he was waiting for me to become the version of myself he knew how to handle.

I was emotional, loud, messy, easy to redirect.

But right now he wants tears because tears can be soothed. He wants a scene because a scene can be condemned.

He wants me to give him proof that I’m too much.

So I give him nothing.

I set the pastry box on the edge of his desk. He watches me warily. “What is that?”

“An apology croissant.”

His face flickers.

“For last night,” I say. “When I hurt your feelings by having opinions about my own business.”

His mouth parts, but no words come out.

I smile. It doesn’t feel like my own.

“Seems unnecessary now,” I muse.