Love Interest(75)

“He’s…” I blink. “Emailing you?”

Alex glances at his phone and nods. “Yeah. He’s helping with … this.” He gestures around the war room vaguely: notes on his whiteboard, the posters pinned to each wall. “He loved your slides, by the way. You did a great job designing that.”

“You—you showed him the presentation?” I ask.

He stiffens at my expression. “Yeah.”

“On your work email?” I all but cry. I’m more worried than I am angry. I know this girl who leaked her company’s private sales data, and now she can’t get a job in the whole industry because IT outed her.

“No, my personal email. Alex-loves-soccer-at-gmail-dot-com,” he says with a smirk.

But that’s even worse, because it means he knew he was doing something wrong. Alarm bells are going off in my head, which means they’re going off on my face, too.

“What’s the big deal?” Alex asks. “Robert offered to help, and I figured, why not?”

“Because he’s not an employee anymore, Alex, that’s why not. It’s privileged information. It’s valuable information.”

He chuckles, but it sounds strained. “I get how it looks when you put it like that, but … this company is in his blood, Case. He’s not just any old ex-employee. He was the CEO. He was the chairman.”

“Well, did you mention it to Gus?”

Alex smirks, his voice coming out placating. “Today, Gus did nothing but speed-walk in circles while he talked to his West Coast freelancers on the phone. I think we exchanged three words and two grunts. But sure, I’ll tell him if you want me to.”

Then he ruffles my hair and kisses my forehead and fails to corroborate my impression that there’s anything to be skeptical of. In fact, he looks so … hopeful about his father’s interest, I worry that if I say one more thing, it might hurt him in a way I don’t want to be responsible for.

So, I drop it.

I’m walking out of the war room a few minutes later, hands full of poster-size paper headed for the recycling bin, when Alex says, “Casey?”

I turn back. “Yep?”

For a couple long seconds he doesn’t say a word, just looks me up and down, letting his eyes search me for the first time in weeks.

We’ve seen each other just twice outside of work since Thanksgiving. Once at his place, when Alex fell asleep halfway through Parasite, and once at mine, when we’d both had a craving for Sour Patch Kids (berry flavor, not tropical), but he fell asleep before I even tore open the bag, his legs on the floor, back resting against the foot of my mattress. I lugged him under the covers and followed him into slumber, but three hours later I woke up to the feeling of him hard, of me wanting him, and we made delirious, messy love tangled in sheets at three in the morning.

There’s something about being tangled up in another person’s limbs, half asleep, that can feel more intimate than just about anything.

Alex’s gaze shifts from the war room whiteboard to my face. “When this is over,” he rasps, eyes like storm clouds fit to burst, “can I have you for, like, forty-eight uninterrupted hours?”

My cheeks flush. Alex notices. His mouth pulls up, revealing traces of amusement behind the urgency that’s been driving him forward for days on end.

“I don’t think I’ve spent forty-eight uninterrupted hours with anyone since I was a kid,” I admit. “Not even Miriam or my parents.”

“You like alone time,” he says. Not a question.

“Sometimes,” I admit. He waits, silently asking me for more words. “Did you ever go to sleepaway camp?” I ask.

“Does boarding school count?”

“Not if there was air-conditioning.”

“Ah,” he says. “Then no.”

“Well, I did, once, when I was twelve. It was in Missouri, and it was, like, this arts and crafts camp thing? You know, decoupage and whittling and songwriting and scrapbooking classes, all interspersed with pool time that gave me an ear infection and Bible school that was pretty progressive, looking back, but anyway. I hated it.”

Alex laughs hoarsely. “Why did you go to arts and crafts camp?”

“Dad thought it would be good for me.” I roll my eyes. “Miriam was doing an adventure camp in Colorado, and I didn’t have any other friends, which worried him, so it was either that or sports camp, and when it comes to art, I can at least pretend to care.”

He laughs again. “How long was it?”

“It was supposed to be for a month, but I made Dad pick me up after two weeks.”

“I am picturing,” he says, arms stretching behind his head, straining the fabric of his shirt, the seam riding up past his stomach, “a twelve-year-old fuming silently at a picnic table under an awning, cutting up magazine pages from an old Frame issue to glue back together. In the background, there is a cappella, and also, someone is making a friendship bracelet.”

“Okay, you definitely went to sleepaway camp.”

“Swear I didn’t.”

I smile. “Anyway. It wasn’t even the activities I hated, or the people. They were cool, and the low-stakes crafting was fine. But really, I just hated that I never got to be alone. We all slept in this giant tepee, and I never felt like I could breathe, you know? When I go on a trip, I just want to be able to breathe and relax. Otherwise I get—” I rub at my side uncomfortably. “It makes me, um, anxious.”