Page 48 of Most Likely to Deny Love

“It was you,” she finally whispered, so softly I almost didn’t hear it. She took a step toward my desk, then another. “All this time.”

I couldn’t read her expression, couldn’t tell if she was angry or confused or something else entirely.

“Mia, I…” The words trailed off, because what the fuck could I say?

“I wanted it to be you,” she admitted, her voice still barely audible. “I hoped it was.”

The confession knocked the air from my lungs. Of all the reactions I’d imagined, this wasn’t one of them. She’d wanted it to be me?

Her eyes suddenly glistened with emotion, and she clutched the post-it note tighter, as if afraid it might disappear. “But why?” It was a simple question but loaded with so much meaning.

Why had I left the notes? Why had I kept it secret? Why had I broken that professional wall between us so deliberately, so carefully, for so long before we’d even started this arrangement?

“I don’t know.” The raw honesty of my answer surprised even me, drawn from some place that didn’t have time for calculated responses. “I just... I had to.”

Mia nodded, seemingly unable to speak. Too many emotions crossed her face for me to track them all, but not one looked like disappointment or anger. She swallowed hard, then tucked the post-it note carefully into her pocket.

“I’ll see you at 7,” she said, her voice slightly unsteady. With one last glance that held a thousand unspoken words, she turned and walked out of my office.

MIA

Istumbled out of Jack’s office in a daze, my fingers clutching the yellow post-it note like it contained nuclear launch codes. My brain felt like it was short-circuiting. Jack Sullivan. All those notes. They had all come from Jack.

The thought sent another wave of dizziness crashing over me. He’d been leaving them since he first started at Catalyst, when he barely knew me. Months of little yellow notes with words that had gotten me through some of my darkest moments. But why had he started? And most importantly, what the fuck did it mean?

I spotted Emily by the copy machine, chatting with one of the accounting guys. Without thinking, I marched over and grabbed her by the elbow.

“Bathroom. Now,” I hissed, already pulling her away mid-sentence.

“What the actual fuck?” Emily protested, but allowed herself to be dragged down the hallway. “I was in the middle of asking Todd about his fantasy baseball league.”

I didn’t slow down, pushing through the bathroom door and immediately checking under each stall for feet. When I wascertain we were alone, I turned to face Emily, who was leaning against the sink with her arms crossed.

“Okay, what’s happening? Did you finally snap and murder Porter? Because I’ve got an alibi prepared for exactly this scenario.”

“No, it’s not that.” I pulled the post-it from my pocket with trembling fingers and held it out to her. “Look.”

Emily squinted at the small square of yellow paper. “Is that an address? Wait, is that Jack’s address?” Her eyes widened comically. “Holy shit, are you going to his place? When did this happen? Did you kiss again? Are you fucking? Please tell me you’re fucking.”

“What? No! Emily, focus!” I tapped the paper urgently. “Look at the handwriting!”

“The handwriting?” She frowned, staring at the note with increasing confusion. “What about it? It’s neat, I guess. Kind of slanted. Very masculine. Probably writes with one of those fancy fountain pens that cost more than my car payment.”

“It’s JACK’S handwriting!” I exclaimed.

“Well, duh, who else’s would it be?” Emily rolled her eyes.

“It’s the same handwriting as the notes!” I almost shouted, my voice echoing slightly off the bathroom tiles.

Emily blinked at me. “What notes?”

“The notes! The post-it notes! The ones that keep showing up on my desk!”

Her frown deepened as she looked back down at the paper, then up at me, then back at the paper again. I could practically see the wheels turning in her brain before they finally clicked into place.

“Holy fucking shit,” she breathed, her eyes going wide. “Jack’s been leaving the notes? Your secret admirer has been Jack Sullivan this whole time?”

“Yes!” My voice came out as a strangled squeak. “He gave me his address, and I was leaving, and I looked at the note, and it just hit me. It’s the same handwriting. It’s been him all along.”

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