Page 23 of Kisses and Paperclips

Alicia shifted uncomfortably, her fingers twisting the strap of her purse. “I’ll go to the other room and order breakfast for us,” she said softly, offering a tentative smile as she slipped out, leaving the tension to simmer between me and Marquis.

I stopped pacing, my gaze locking with his. His eyes pleaded, but all I could muster was, “I’ll think about it,” my voice strained.

“Think about it?” Marquis didn’t even try to hide his frustration. “What’s there to think about? We’re family. What’s keeping you here?”

“You know why I’m here.” My anger flared, hot and unrelenting. He knew why I’d come here and had taken her up on her offer to work on our mother-and-son relationship. He was choosing to be difficult because he’d made his choice; he had no intention of forgiving her and probably never would.

“I said I’ll think about it,” I repeated, my tone final. “Don’t expect me to come running back just ’cause you ask nicely.”

Chapter 5

Serena

“Morning, Serena.”

I stop dead in my tracks, my Louboutins clicking against the marble as I give Veronica—our receptionist—the kind of look that lets her know today is not the day. Her chipper voice?

Not what I need right now.

Why? Because last night, I let a man ruin my silk press. One hour of sleep and no scarf later, I’m here, walking around with my hair slicked back into a messy ponytail, thanks to the travel-sized edge control I found rolling around in my car. It’s a miracle I even managed to leave the house.

Veronica adjusts her glasses and clears her throat nervously. Twice. “I mean, Ms. Harris,” she corrects herself. “I stopped by Butter & Bliss and got you an almond croissant with hot cocoa—extra whipped cream, chocolate drizzle.”

I narrow my eyes, leaning slightly to the side to catch what she’s really up to. She fumbles with a pristine white pastry box, placing it delicately on her desk like it holds the answers to life itself. When she opens it to reveal perfectly aligned pastries, I cross my arms.

Since when does Veronica bring me breakfast? Veronica, who can barely bring herself to work on time without looking like she slept in the breakroom. No makeup. Nails chipped down to the nubs. Last week, I suggested a coat of clear polish—just clear—because, as the first face people see when they walk into the company, presentation matters. Did H.R. appreciate my constructive feedback? No. Now, apparently, I’m the problem.

But today, here she is—glasses smudged but breakfast perfect—offering me a croissant like she’s running for office.

I grab a napkin and pluck two pastries from the box. After the look she gave me on my way in, I figured I deserved extra carbs for my trouble. Hot cocoa is essential, so I’m taking that too.

“Have a great day, Ms. Harris!” Veronica calls out, her voice all jittery nerves.

Rolling my eyes, I don’t bother responding, too busy balancing the pastries and cocoa as I head down the hall.

I barely take two steps when Jonathan from IT shows up, like he’s been waiting for me.

“What are you doing?” I asked, shifting the laptop under my arm while trying not to spill hot cocoa all over my silk blouse.

“Just thought I’d help,” he said, reaching for the laptop. “Wanted to check it out, make sure everything’s running smoothly.”

I stop, pivot on my heel, and stare at him. That’s the second time I’ve had to do that since I got here. “Didn’t you update my laptop last week?”

“I did,” he said, his grin stretching wide. “But, you know, just making sure.”

Oh, now he cares. This is the same man who ghosted my emails for weeks, swearing my glitches could be fixed with a quick restart—right up until the whole system crashed. And now he’s Mr. Proactive?

I glanced around the office, and that’s when I noticed it.

The stares. The hushed whispers. People suddenly getting busy when they know I’m watching. Conversations dropping mid-sentence, eyes darting away like I caught them stealing from the petty cash jar.

The vibe in the office is off, and it’s not because of my hair. It’s the kind of energy that makes you check your back twice. If there’s one thing I’ve learned in this business, it’s that silence is rarely golden—it’s a flashing red light, the office equivalent of a tornado siren.

Something is up.

Reaching Steven’s desk, I tap my nails against the edge, each click demanding his attention. He’s hunched over his screen, typing like the fate of the world depends on it.

“Morning,” I drawled, dragging the word out just enough to make him flinch.

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