Page 14 of Words We Didn't Say

Yvette plonked down her cocktail. “Okay.Okay.I’m the chosen one for once. I can do this.” She shook out her hands and arms before settling into a prayer position. She screwed her eyes shut and hummed. “Follow me. Big breaths.” One eye slitted open. “I don’t hear any big breaths.”

I laughed. “Sorry, but this is too weird.”

“Isn’t this what you do with the grouch?”

“No way. Andie usually says something like, ‘Get over yourself, loser.’” I shrugged. “It works.”

“Tough love, huh? Well, on that note, please tell me your office booty call is the only reason you’re wearing that outfit. Wait! Is that—” Her hand flew over her mouth. She inched it down again only to ask in horror, “Are you wearing a purple cardigan?”

“It’s, um, corporate chic.” I winced. It was ugly.Reallyugly.

Yvette’s nose wrinkled. “If you say so.”

“Look, this was the best outfit I could scrounge together at the last minute, okay? I don’t exactly have a row of dull lawyer wear hanging in my closet.”

“And the universe thanks you for having better taste.” Yvette lifted the glass to her lips and muttered, “Usually.”

“It got me in the building and up the elevator.”

Truthfully, the security guard’s dopey smile after I’d sobbed a made-up story about lost paperwork and popped enough buttons toaccidentallyflash him my bra got me in the elevator. No one needed to hear that version of the story, though. I grinned.

“A smile!” Yvette squealed. “Feeling better now?”

I bobbed my head in a quick nod. “I’m good.”

“I expect a bridesmaid’s dress as payment for my efforts.”

“Deal.” I waved.

Yvette flapped a wave back. “Oh, and Deenie?”

“Yeah?”

“Get over yourself, loser!”

Yvette’s cackle ended the call, and that reminder of my friend picked me up off the floor. I slung my bag over my shoulder and grabbed the takeout. The corridor wasn’t endless anymore. Confident steps powered me past the offices to where only one light still burned.

Hey, stranger.

Zach was scowling at his computer, nibbling on the end of his fancy fountain pen. His jacket was off, the cufflinks I’d bought him on display, and his tie hung loose enough to flick open the top few buttons of his shirt. My heart squeezed. He wassohandsome. He had no idea. He walked around oblivious to the eyelashes fluttering in his direction, always too busy inspecting his shoes, never paying much attention to anyone—except me. I smiled.

My footsteps fell in sync with a new echo from the other end of the corridor. Heels. I paused, plastering myself back against the glass, my breaths silent.

Closer…and closer…

A woman sauntered out of the shadows. Her hair was more caramel than blonde, a balayage that desperately needed smoother blending, and she was wearing the typical bland black suit my business clients seemed to prefer. Her shoes had a little more personality, though—designer stilettos with red soles that tapped along the marble floors to Zach’s office.

The woman drummed her knuckles on the glass door. When Zach didn’t look up from whatever he was reading, she nudged the door open.

“Rawles.” She held up a black coffee mug. “Thought you might need this.”

“Oh, uh…” He barely lifted his eyes off the computer. “Thanks, Mac.”

Mac.

Thiswas Mac? I’d imagined some guy in his mid-forties with thinning hair wearing a suit jacket that didn’t quite button up around his middle—not her!

Apprehension dripped down my spine.

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