Barrett Payne appeared at my desk on a Tuesday morning with a latte and a smile.
"Oat milk, one pump vanilla, extra hot," he said, setting the cup down. "Right?"
I looked up from my screen. "How did you—"
"I pay attention." He leaned against the partition. "Also I asked Sandra, but that ruins the mystique."
I laughed. Actually laughed. The sound surprised me.
He grinned. "There it is. I was starting to think you didn't know how."
"I know how to laugh."
"Could've fooled me. You've got this whole ice-queen-who-takes-no-prisoners thing going." He tilted his head. "It's working for you, don't get me wrong. But it's nice to know there's a human under there."
I picked up the latte. It was perfect. Exactly the way I ordered it.
"Thank you," I said.
"Anytime." He pushed off the partition. "Hey, you eat lunch?"
"Generally, yes."
"Smart. Very pro-survival." He smiled. "Want to eat it with me today? There's a new poke place on Pine. Supposed to be good."
I should have said no.
I said, "Okay."
His face lit up. "Yeah?"
"Yeah."
"Noon?"
"Noon."
He walked away looking like he'd just won something.
Sandra appeared the moment he was out of earshot.
"That was interesting," she said.
"It's lunch."
"Uh-huh." She sipped her terrible break-room coffee. "He's cute. Single. Doesn't take himself too seriously. You could do worse."
I didn't answer.
She studied me. "You could also do nothing, which is what you've been doing since you got here."
"I'm focusing on work."
"You're hiding."
I looked at her.
She shrugged. "Just an observation."
She left.
I stared at the latte and felt something I hadn't felt in a long time.
Guilty.
Lunch was easy. Barrett talked about his last project, a rebrand for a boutique hotel in Portland. He sketched the logo on a napkin. It was good. He was good.
"You should've been in that pitch meeting," I said.
"I was. You just didn't notice me." He grinned. "I'm used to it. I have a very forgettable face."
"You don't."
He looked at me. The grin softened into something else.
"Good to know," he said.
We walked back to the office. He held the door. Asked if I liked art. There was a gallery opening Friday night. Small place in Pioneer Square. His friend was showing.
"You should come," he said.
I hesitated.
"Just as friends," he added quickly. "No pressure. I just think you'd like it."
"I'll think about it," I said.
He nodded. Smiled. Walked toward the elevator.
I watched him go and felt the guilt sharpen.
The next morning, Barrett's desk was empty.
I noticed at 9:30 a.m. By 10:00, Sandra had the explanation.
"He got reassigned," she said. "Some project two floors up. Satellite office."
"Why?"
She shrugged. "Workflow optimization. That's what the email said."
I pulled up my inbox. Found the message. Read it twice.
It was signed by Clayton.
I stood up.
Sandra looked at me. "Where are you going?"
"Nowhere," I said.
I walked to Clayton's office. The door was open. He was at his desk, sleeves rolled up, eyes on his screen.
I stepped inside and closed the door.
He looked up.
"You reassigned Barrett," I said.
He leaned back in his chair. "Yes."
"Why?"
"We needed someone on the Cascade account. He's a good fit."
"He was a good fit on my team."
"He's a better fit on Cascade."
I crossed my arms. "You moved him because he asked me to lunch."
Clayton didn't blink. "I moved him because the project required it."
"That's bullshit."
"It's documented."
"It's transparent."
He stood. Slowly. Walked around the desk and stopped three feet from me.
"What do you want me to say, Margot?"
"I want you to admit you're using your authority to control my personal life."
He looked at me for a long moment.
"I'm not controlling your personal life," he said quietly. "I'm protecting mine."
The air left the room.
I stared at him.
He didn't move. Didn't soften.
"You don't get to do that," I said.
"I just did."
My hands curled into fists. "We're not together."
"I know."
"We're not anything."
"Okay."
"So you don't get to—" I stopped. My voice was shaking.
He stepped closer. Not touching. Just close enough that I could feel the heat of him.
"Tell me you don't think about it," he said. "Tell me you don't replay that night every time you see me. Tell me you're not lying to yourself right now."
I couldn't.
He nodded slowly. "That's what I thought."
I turned and walked out.
I didn't look back.
I didn't trust myself to.
When I got back to my desk, my hands were still shaking.
Sandra didn't ask.
I opened my laptop and stared at the screen until the words stopped blurring.
Barrett sent me a message at 3:00 p.m.
*Hey—heard you're stuck with someone boring now. Let me know if you still want to hit that gallery Friday. No pressure.*
I read it three times.
I didn't respond.
I closed the message and went back to work.
But I felt Clayton's eyes on me from across the floor.
And I hated that I wanted them there.
