I stomp toward her desk and slap the drawing on the surface.
She jumps up in her seat before dropping back into the cushion. “Hello! Can you announce your presence like a normal person?”
I don’t reply because I’m afraid to breathe while this close to her. All it takes is one scent of her perfume for my blood to reroute its path from my brain to my dick.
Thankfully, I have enough control over my impulses to stand down and take a step back.
She tilts her head at me. “What’s wrong with you?”
I readjust my already perfect tie. “Nothing.”
“Right.” She turns toward the drawing and stares.
Does she like it?
Of course she likes it, you self-conscious fuck. Who wouldn’t?
Her eyes pop open as she traces the design. “This is amazing.”
I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding in. At least I still have some of my drawing talent like Grandpa said. I’ll give it to the old man. He was right after all when he said talent doesn’t disappear—passion does.
My throat constricts. Focus on the task at hand.
Although the drawing took multiple attempts and over twenty-four hours to finalize, the process of recreating Zahra’s design was easy. Too easy. By the time I realized I had finished the final product an hour ago, a weird emptiness had washed over me. My fingers itched to keep going and chase after that all-consuming feeling where the world shut off around me.
I hate that I want more of it. It makes me feel weak and like I’m teetering on the edge of no control.
“I better get going.” I step toward the entrance of her cubicle.
“Wait!” She bolts out of her chair.
“What?” Does she know I drew it?
Fuck. How could she?
She waves her hand. “It’s missing a signature.”
“What is?”
“The drawing.”
I freeze and consider my words as carefully as I can during this kind of circumstance. “And?” Smooth.
“And whoever designed it deserves credit for their work. It’s the right thing to do.” Her eyes drop to the floor.
Interesting. This is the second time her trust issues have come to the surface. Is this because of Lance Baker publishing a similar proposal to hers? Or is there something else that affects her ability to put faith in someone else?
Rather than feel pleased with my assessment, an inky feeling slithers through my chest. I might be many things, but I’m not a thief.
I shake it off. “The artist is a contact I have from the Animation Department. It’s a half-assed rush job, so don’t worry about giving them credit.”
“Will you share their number with me so I could tell them thank you?”
I frown. “They want to remain anonymous.”
“Okay, how about you give them my number then. If they don’t want to text me, then they don’t have to. No hard feelings.” She blows out a breath.
A dark lock of hair drops in front of her eyes. She tucks it behind her ear that’s covered in a row of unique earrings. I take a step forward to get a look at the designs, only to pull back when she takes a deep breath.
My groan thankfully gets stuck in my throat. “And what do you stand to get out of this conversation?”
She looks at me with knitted brows. “Are you always this cynical about people’s intentions?”
“Yes.”