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Irritation flashes over her face. Good. “Nope. I’ll just be over here.”
She settles into her desk chair. I can make out just the side of her body and her screen. Don’t even look at her. She’s tapping diligently away while I refocus on the term sheet. Millions of dollars deserve my full attention. I will not be distracted by her. Until she starts humming again.
“Can you not?”
“What?” Her head snaps up.
“Stop. Humming. People who hum in public should be shot.”
Her eyes narrow. “Do you hate all happiness, or just mine specifically?”
“Yours is particularly distasteful to me.” And she seems to be so damn happy all the time. Singing under her breath, maintaining that pleasant facade. And I’m sure it’s a facade. Which means I can crack it.
“At least you’re honest.” She snorts and turns around.
“Why are you even here? Don’t you have files to finish?”
“I’m working.”
“Right. On the paper.” Derision is heavy in my tone.
She swivels in her chair, and frustration is written on her face, before she smoothes it away. “I’ll do my work. And you do yours. Unless I’m making it difficult for you to focus? You could always give me the million now, and I’ll be out of your hair.”
I nearly smile. “Nice try. Now turn around and do that work you so desperately need to do.”
Thirty minutes later, I have to admit she’s relentless. Disorganized but intelligent. She scrawls quick notes on a pad of paper as she types, then turns to editing a photo. Of me?
I get up for a closer look, and she startles. Those huge blue eyes are surprised, her lips parted. The scent of her shampoo is in my nose. “What are you writing about?”
“Not you,” she says shortly.
I see a photo of an older woman, but not much else. “I thought you mostly covered celebrity gossip.”
“You know, I’m not surprised you’ve never read the paper. Did you just look for things about yourself and then go straight to the comments section?”
Embarrassment heats my face, and what the fuck? I’m never embarrassed. “I’m more of a Financial Times kind of guy.”
“At least it’s not the Journal.” She shrugs, unimpressed, before digging around in her bag. “Here. The latest copy.” She passes a slightly dog-eared paper to me, and I take it gingerly.
“It won’t bite.”
“Wouldn’t want to get ink on my hands,” I say smoothly. In reality, I want nothing to do with this. Seeing your face looking at you from every publication in New York City will do that to you. Callie might not even realize how widespread the articles were, because I eradicated every mention of me from the press after the incident with Anna and Dylan. Every copy burned.
She snorts and turns back to her computer. Ignoring me. And like a little kid, I want more of her attention.
“So, what are you writing about today, if not me?”
She huffs and scrolls up. “It’s an interview with a documentary filmmaker. She’s a lifelong resident of the Upper West Side, and she just finished a documentary about the neighborhood and how it’s changed over the years.”
I’m silent as I scan the interview questions. What do you remember about being a child in the neighborhood? What have your own experiences of change been? How did that influence your work?
Good questions. Insightful, intelligent. Begrudging respect fills me. I assumed Callie wrote only gossip and fluff pieces, but I was wrong. Callie yawns as I read.
“Tired?”
She rubs at her face. “Yeah. I was nervous about today. I didn’t sleep much last night. And I need to finish this before I send it to the proofreader.”
“Good. You should be nervous.”
