Page 58 of Kisses and Paperclips

Serena

Avoiding a man? That’s a skill.

Avoiding Julien Brooks?

That’s a full-time job with no PTO and no benefits—but somehow, I was clocking in like it paid me to stay unbothered.

It had been three days.

Three days since he leaned across my desk with that cologne that had no business being that good. Three days since he looked at me like he knew exactly where my mind went when I wasn’t pretending to hate him. Three days since I told myself enough was enough.

That whatever this was—this crackling tension, this slow dance around danger—needed to die before it turned into a fire I couldn’t put out.

So I got strategic.

Worked from home. Set my Slack to “Do Not Disturb” like my peace depended on it. Skipped lunch meetings and made up a dentist appointment that didn’t exist. I even gave myself a fake root canal on the company calendar just to be safe.

But tonight?

Tonight, I couldn’t hide.

Guilty Pleasures gala was unavoidable, black-tie, high profile clients, champagne on tap, and possible investors. Ms. Brooks was officially handing over the CEO reins to her son, and every heavy-hitter from here to D.C. would be in attendance to clap and smile and pretend they weren’t already plotting their next business move over fancy appetizers.

Julien would be there. In a tailored tux that probably cost more than my first car, standing at the center of the room like he owned it and, technically, he did.

I took one last look in the mirror and adjusted the neckline of my dress, emerald silk that hugged me and silver sandals, neither was the right attire of the weather but damn I look good wearing it so that makes it worth it. I dare anyone to say something about it. Especially Julien.

Let him look.

Let him remember and be tortured by the memory of our night as much as I’ve been.

I’m done playing fair.

With Evelyn Brooks, subtlety was never on the menu.

Of course, she would book a venue with a literal runway to stage a sneak peek of our new spring line. Let the guests sip champagne and pretend they were part of something exclusive—even though every look hitting the runway tonight would be blasted across every screen in America by next week’s commercial drop.

Still, it worked. The room was all chandeliers, soft gold lighting, and floral centerpieces that probably cost more than my first car. A live band played smooth jazz near the stage, and I wasn’t entirely sure if we could afford it, but who was I to ruin the fantasy?

I was halfway through my first cider of the night when Steven slid in beside me, one arm casually draped around my waist like we were filming a scene from a very stylish soap opera.

“He’s getting irritable,” he sing-songed into my ear.

“Who?” I asked, though I already knew. That tone? That look in his eye? Only one man made Steven twitch like that.

“Your father,” he said, confirming my suspicion. “Called the office today looking for you. When I told him you weren’t in, he dropped a few choice words and hung up on me.”

I rolled my eyes and took a slow, dramatic sip of my cider. “Put him on the no-call list.”

“Serena,” he said, hesitating like he was about to enter dangerous territory. “Maybe it wouldn’t kill you to talk to him—”

The look I gave him made him choke on the rest of that sentence.

“Right. No-call list. Got it,” he mumbled, already backing away.

But I caught his arm before he could fully retreat.

“You’re not still mad at me, are you?” I asked, softer now.

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