Alex winces, his face twisted up in what is obviously panic.
I’m so confused.
“Uh.” He scratches at the back of his neck and walks out of the elevator, pointing to a spot a short distance away, his head hung low. His dad follows him, abandoning his cohort, and I follow, too, as the other board members press into the elevator we just vacated.
“What’s that about?” one of them asks under his breath.
“Robert’s bastard works here,” another one—Dougie, this time—answers. The sentence is louder than necessary, and Dougie adds on an unkind laugh, which causes Robert to pause and glare back at him. I catch the tail end of what Dougie says as I keep walking. “I thought Robert knew. I thought Robert did it.”
Me too.
Out of earshot from the others, Alex says to his father, “I work here now. At Little Cooper, for Bite the Hand.”
The older man’s face goes beet red, his expression mottled with fury.
Holy crap. His dad had no idea.
Which means … Alex didn’t get this job because of his father.
“Put in your notice today,” Robert threatens quietly, and I’m so jarred by those five words that I stumble back a little.
Both men turn, noticing me for the first time. “I’ll wait for you outside,” I tell Alex. I shouldn’t be present for the fallout of this conversation.
He gives me a terse nod, staring at the floor like he’s guilty of something. I walk away as my mind spins in violent pirouettes.
Behind me, Robert starts in on his son. “When did you leave Seoul?”
“I left you three voicemails. I tried to tell you.…”
I exit the building, still numb with confusion. Did Robert Harrison just order his own son to put in his notice? Without bothering to hear him out?
Brisk fall air replaces the sterile chill on my skin from the lobby. The soles of my shoes scrape along the sidewalk as I attempt to deconstruct an equation I was certain I’d already solved in my head. Nepotism plus Harvard plus Yankees happy hour invites. Seoul start-ups plus goofy elevator jokes plus You don’t know anything about me, you don’t have a clue.
“Casey!” I snap to attention, and Saanvi materializes before me on the sidewalk. Behind her, the glow of the midday sun splayed across the city’s financial district jars me back to reality. There’s a small video team with her and a portable version of the cooking studio recording setup. “Perfect timing. Where’s Alex?”
“He’s just…” I gesture vaguely behind me. “Talking with someone inside.”
A short, curvy woman with curls and milk-white skin clips a microphone to the front of my sweater. “Hi,” the stranger says. “I’m Sara. I do sound.”
“Casey. I do finance.”
Behind Sara, two guys with matching hipster aesthetics are strapped up in camera gear. They eye me suspiciously. I eye them suspiciously right back.
“Oh, there he is!” Saanvi bounces on her heels.
Before I can turn, Alex appears, stoic, speechless, eyes like a finance bro who just realized he fell victim to the sunk cost fallacy. His face is ashen.
I’ve got an inkling the Alex I know isn’t really here at all.
Sara mics him up the same way she did me, and then she runs us through the audio need-to-knows—reminders not to smack the hidden tech with our arms, how to avoid muffling the sound. But I don’t think Alex hears a word of it.
I start to panic then. Because I need Alex right now, and he’s lost somewhere. Which is a problem, because I can’t be him. Wouldn’t know how to if I tried. His extroverted enthusiasm, his off-the-cuff humor. That’s what’s going to make this thing work. Not me. Never just me.
“Alex,” I say softly when Sara moves away.
His caramel eyes find mine, and he croaks out, “This was a mistake.”
He’s not talking about the video shoot.
My voice is firm, the words a near hiss under my breath. Once I say this, there will be no taking it back. “It wasn’t a mistake. You’re good at this job. People want you here. I want you here.”
And holy shit, but I really do mean it.
His face is turned down toward mine, and his head blocks the sun, his features cast in shadow. But even like this, I can see him plain as day. The demons his father brought forth get banished in the sunlight, and he starts to appear again from beneath them. The longer I look, the more Alex comes back, until that familiar face of casual competence is just as maddening as it’s always been—but at least it’s fixed right back where it belongs.
He bites the inside of his cheek. “I can’t believe you just said those words.”
I want you here.
“Don’t let it go to your head.”
Alex grins softly, pushing a hand through his hair to flatten it down, which is mostly unsuccessful. “It’s too late for that.”
Saanvi walks Alex and me through the intro she’s after, warning us when the mics go live. “Keep it simple,” she says. “Name, job title, where you’re from. Someone can also mention what you’re doing today. Alex, you want it?”
He shrugs. “Sure.”
“So, Casey, you’ll go first. Don’t worry if you don’t nail the intro on your first try. It takes a while for anyone to find their sea legs on camera.” Saanvi wrinkles her nose with distaste, as if recalling a previous disaster of a video shoot. As long as I don’t cause her to make that face again, I’ll mark this venture as a success.
The team goes through some final checks and last-minute video setup. Then, I’m saying—in a slightly elevated voice, to a tiny black dot on a little machine—“Hey, guys, welcome to another episode of ‘One Day at Work.’ I’m Casey, a financial analyst here at Little Cooper Publications, and I’m from Tennessee.”
Beside me, Alex waves and flashes a brilliant smile that’ll probably melt hearts. “And I’m Alex, a project manager. I’m from right here, New York City. And today we’re taking you out for a work lunch.”
We get it on the first take, and Saanvi’s head almost explodes. She spins around in a circle, flapping her arms, potentially trying to take off. The rest of the video team looks substantially impressed, too, and I am slightly less embarrassed than I was a few minutes ago.
“Let’s walk,” Saanvi directs. “The team will follow behind you two so we don’t piss off the pedestrians. I don’t like this angle much, but we have to work with nature on this one.”
There isn’t a scrap of actual nature in sight—nothing but industrial buildings, hot dog carts, and cigarette butts on the ground—but I choose not to point this out to Saanvi.
I start to walk. “Should I just assume everything I say from now on is fair game for the final cut?”
“Yes.” Saanvi’s expression is dead serious. “That question included. Adorable.”
The October sun is warm on my back. Behind me, Saanvi whispers lens-glare-related prayers to the clouds. Since it’s only ten past eleven, the lunch crowd hasn’t come out in droves yet, and the sidewalks are just this side of bearable.
“What should we talk about?” Alex asks, aiming his question at the team behind us.