“That Erik Nowak? ProBld’s Erik Nowak?”
I cock my head. Are there any others? “Yeah?”
“Are you guys friends?”
“We only just met.”
“So you’re not, like, buddies.” She seems relieved. “Okay. Good. You were laughing together, so I just wanted to make sure.”
“Why . . . Would it be a problem if we were?”
“Not quite, no. I mean, I wouldn’t dream of telling you who you should and shouldn’t hang out with. But the two of you seemed a bit . . . chummy, and I just wanted to make sure . . . you know.” She waves a hand dismissively. “If you were friends and talked regularly, I’d want to remind you to be safe and very, very discreet when talking shop with him. But since you’re just casual acquaintances, then—”
“Why would I . . .” I frown, swiveling my chair to better face her. This conversation is very odd, and I’m wondering if I should chug down another coffee before it continues. “What do you mean by safe and discreet?”
She opens her mouth. Then closes it, looks around to make sure that none of the interns are here, and opens it again. “A while ago ProBld made me an offer. Basically, they wanted to buy GreenFrame and its client portfolio, and sort of incorporate it as a division of their company.”
“Oh.” I blink. Erik didn’t mention it last night. Then again, neither has Gianna, ever. “I had no idea.”
“Well, it was before I hired you. Two, three years ago? Before the kids. And to be honest, it wasn’t the first nor the last offer I got.”
“Right. I knew Innovus offered.”
“And JKC. Yeah. But ProBld was kind of . . . insistent.” She rolls her eyes. “The reason they wanted us on board is that they’re trying really hard to expand into the ecologically sustainable market, but they haven’t had much success luring in really qualified people like . . . well, like you. Since most of them would rather go to more specialized firms. Don’t get me wrong, they’ve been hiring some promising engineers, but they don’t have the expertise they need yet. So they made me a really good offer, I said no, thank you, I would rather be my own boss, and for a few months it looked like everything was going to continue as usual.” She pauses. “Then it started.”
I shake my head, confused. “What started?”
“A bunch of shitty little things. The worst of which was targeting some of our clients to get them to switch to ProBld. I heard that some of their people were sniffing around our sites, too. Not exactly upstanding stuff.”
I stiffen. This sounds . . . bad. Real bad. “Gianna, just to be clear.” I take a deep breath. “Last night I went out with Erik for dinner. So we . . . I guess we are chummy. But he’s great, and he wouldn’t do anything like what you mentioned.” I say it with more certainty than I should probably feel, given that I first met him exactly twenty-four hours ago. But it’s Erik. I trust him. “I don’t know what the partners and the higher-ups are doing at ProBld, but I’m sure he’d never condone anything like that.”
“Well, he is a partner.”
I blink. “He . . . Excuse me?”
“Erik is one of the partners.”
All of a sudden I’m feeling cold. And very, very nauseous. “He is a— What are you talking about?”
“You said you went to dinner with him. Are you telling me he didn’t mention that he’s one of the founding partners?” She must read the answer on my face, because her expression shifts to something that looks a lot like pity. “He started ProBld right out of school with two of his buddies. And the rest is history.”
“I’d love to poach you . . . I’ll pay you more. Name a figure . . . I’m very open to negotiating.”
“Wait—you?”
“ProBld.”
“Does he know you’re an engineer?” Gianna is asking.
I clear my throat. “Yes. I told him I worked for GreenFrame.”
“Before or after he asked you out?”
“I . . .” That wasn’t the reason. It wasn’t. Can’t have been. “Before.”
“Oh, Sadie.” Same tone as before—now with more pity. “But you didn’t tell him anything specific about our projects or strategies or clients, right?”
“I . . .” I massage my forehead, which suddenly feels like it’s about a second from exploding. “I don’t think so.”
“Did he ask about anything?”
“No, he . . .”
Yes. Yes, he did.
I can clearly see him, sitting across from me at the restaurant. His almost-smile. His neat, voracious way of eating.
How did it go, by the way? . . . Your pitch.
Who’s the client?
So you got the project?
“Sadie? Are you okay?”
No. No. Nope. “I think . . . I’m afraid I mentioned something. About the Milton project. It came up in conversation, and I . . . I knew he was an engineer so I went into more detail than I should have, and . . .” Gianna covers her eyes with her hand, and I want the floor to swallow me whole. The addled, blissed-out feeling from this morning has dissolved, replaced with dread and a strong desire to puke my waffle all over the floor. “Gianna, I know it seems sketchy, but I don’t think Erik would ever do anything like what you mentioned. We really hit it off last night, and . . .” My voice dies down, which is just as well. I cannot bear to hear myself talking anymore.
He didn’t say he was a partner. Why didn’t he? Why do I feel dizzy?
“I hope you’re right,” Gianna says, even more of that unsettling compassion in her eyes. She pushes away from my desk, high heels clicking into her office, and doesn’t look back.
I feel like I could cry. And I also feel like this is a stupid, nonsensical misunderstanding I’m going to laugh about. I have no idea which one is the right thing to do, so I try to focus on work, but I’m too tired, or preoccupied, or horrified to concentrate. At two p.m. Erik texts me: In meetings until 7. Can I take you out after? and I think about our dinner last night, in a restaurant where he usually brings clients. Am I work to him?
Two minutes later he adds, Or I could cook for you.
And then: Before you ask: no, not herring.
I stare at the messages for a long time, and then I stand to take a look at the copy machine, which has been beeping because of its usual paper jam. I ball up the offending sheet and throw it in the recycling bin, not quite seeing what’s in front of me.
I answer emails. I call one architect. I smile at the interns and have them help me with research. I wait for . . . I don’t know what I’m waiting for. A sign. For this weird, apocalyptic confusion to dissipate. Come on, Erik didn’t go out with me as a cover for some sort of . . . corporate espionage bullshit, or whatever. This is not a John Grisham book, and what I told Gianna stands: my gut tells me that he would never, ever do anything like it. Unfortunately, I’m not positive my gut isn’t lying to me. I think it might just want to make out with the most attractive man in the world during the halftime of soccer games.
The copy machine beeps three times, and then three more. Apparently, I fixed absolutely nothing.