He grabs his wineglass. Swirls it. Sips languorously.
I pin him with a knowing look. “You’re loving this, you attention whore.”
“You can’t prove that!”
After dinner, he takes home the hostess, and I take home the gnocchi.
CHAPTER EIGHT
I’m halfway through last month’s P&L prep when Alex swings into my cubicle. One of his hands is clinging to the flimsy wall’s edge, the other open and lifted. His hair is a wreck and he’s wearing a crimson-and-yellow tie striped on the diagonal. With a clip.
“Tie clip,” I comment dryly.
“Does it offend you?”
“Depends. Is it engraved with the logo of your personal clothier?”
“Of course,” Alex says, just as dryly. “I visit him in the South of France each June after the Cannes Film Festival. Where do you summer?”
“The Florida Panhandle.”
He whistles appreciatively.
“What are you doing here?” I ask. “I could have met you in the lobby.”
The face Alex aims at me is triumphant, insufferable, and I can already tell he’s going to gloat about something. “I wanted to tell you right away that I got the budget expanded.”
“What? How?” I spin toward him in my swivel chair and cross my legs beneath my maxi skirt.
“With the right motivation, anything is possible.”
My eyes narrow. “Who’d you get fired to cobble together the money?”
“Looking at her.”
I blink in rapid succession. “You’re hilarious.”
He smirks. “Don’t worry, Simba. Much as I hate to admit it, I wouldn’t get anything done without you. The extra money came out of Garden Girl’s budget. I now have enemies on thirty-eight who might try to off me with poisonous flora.”
“Worse ways to go.”
“Even so, I won’t be accepting strange teas for the time being.”
“Not even from me?”
“Especially from you.” Alex taps on the wall a couple of times, then leans against it, crossing his arms. “I didn’t know you wore glasses.”
“Oh.” I rip them off my face. “They’re just blue light.”
He hums. “Here I thought we finally had something in common.”
“Contacts?” I ask.
He nods. “Since I was a kid.”
I get a sudden flash of Alex in the morning, dressed in boxers （with a lacrosse stick motif） and an old HARVARD T-shirt. Glasses on, hair wrecked. The image makes my ears get weirdly hot.
“You ready for lunch?” he asks quietly, as if he really is just asking me if I’m ready for lunch. His expression is warm. After what I admitted to him yesterday, maybe he’s trying to be gentle with me.
I put my computer to sleep, grab my bag, and stand. With a weary sigh, I warn him, “This whole YouTube thing might be an absolute shit show.”
“Knowing us, it will be.” He smiles. But something about it seems kind of sad.
“Alex.” My chin tilts down toward my shoes. “I…”
When I don’t finish, he takes a step forward. “Yeah?” His voice is still soft. Encouraging.
I want to be wrong about you, too.
A more magnanimous person would say it. But if I told him I want to move forward, it would still feel like a betrayal to myself. His employment here is a hump I’m not fully able to get past, and maybe that’s okay, but it’s not right for me to lord it over Alex’s very qualified, hardworking head, either.
“For today, should we just … put everything aside? For Bite the Hand’s sake?”
He gives me another smile and looks out the window, hands in his pockets. “Sure, Casey. If that’s what you want.”
I nod. He nods. I start walking, and he follows.
On our way to the elevator, Alex says, “Hey, Benny.”
Benny holds up a palm, head hung in defeat from all the schedule wrangling he’s had to do this month. “I cannot engage with you today, Alex. I simply cannot.”
I stifle a snort.
Behind the closed doors of the elevator, Alex and I settle against opposite walls. “Sometimes I think Benny’s attitude is a vibe check for the whole company,” he says.
“Bad news for the rest of October,” I joke, tucking my hair behind my ears.
He watches me for a moment in that open, plain-as-day way of his, arms crossed over his chest, head resting against the wall behind him. His eyes flicker across my face, then flash briefly down the length of my body and back up. So fast I might have imagined it.
His lips part. But he must decide against whatever was on the tip of his tongue, because he clamps them back together and gives a tiny shake of his head.
“What?” I ask.
He hesitates. “Nothing.”
“Liar.”
Alex scrubs a hand over his forehead. “It’s not professional.”
I raise my eyebrows. “Do I really need to remind you what you whispered to me in this very elevator on your first day? Besides, if you don’t tell me, my mind’s going to autofill with something far worse.”
Alex laughs and shakes his head. “I was just going to say you look pretty.”
My head perks up like a bird-of-paradise, proud someone noticed my ridiculous preening. “Oh. Thank you.”
I tried not to put on more makeup this morning than I’d do for my normal workday routine, but I couldn’t get the fact that I’d be on camera out of my head every time I looked in the mirror. I picked out an eye-popping outfit, too, praying the bright colors would distract from whatever bland, forgettable nonsense falls out of my mouth. My maxi skirt is pink and pleated, and I’m wearing a lightweight sweater that belonged to my mom. My ears are adorned with big silver stars and my hair’s been semi-blown out.
“Don’t worry. Tomorrow I’ll go back to looking like a gremlin.”
Alex shakes his head again, softer this time. Beneath his breath, he says, “You’ll look just as pretty tomorrow as you did the day we met.”
The elevator doors open to the lobby. I hardly notice. Alex’s and my gazes are locked, as if we’re both waiting to see if the other person is going to freak out over what he just said.
“Alex?” comes a deep, hoarse voice from outside the elevator.
We both turn forward in sync.
Standing there among a gaggle of old white men, all of whom are dressed in tailored suits and boasting varying states of baldness, is Robert Harrison.
Alex’s father.
Their familial designations may as well be written on their foreheads. Robert is tall, like his son. They have the same sharp jawline, the same thin nose, broad forehead, and even broader shoulders. But his father’s eyes are blue compared to Alex’s light brown, and his hair and skin is pale white against Alex’s darker features.
Robert Harrison was the CEO when I first started with Little Cooper two and a half years ago. When he announced he was moving on to the less demanding position of board chairman, Dougie Dawson came onto the scene out of nowhere.
I spot Dougie now in the crowd, too. Must be a board meeting today.
“Dad,” Alex says, gulping.
His father looks genuinely taken off guard. “Alex, what are you doing here?”