“Eh.” He shrugs. “Not in so many words. Not that I needed to hear them. It’s so obvious—he’s gone from being regular-level tetchy to next-level asshole, then to sublimely happy.”
I laugh as Fin’s hand gestures make a jolting map of Oliver’s moods.
“Hey, I’m serious. He’s suddenly like this transcendental being.”
“Have you considered the Oliver that’s coming to the office might be an alien ...”
“He’s something else all right. But what are you doing here? Coming or going?” he adds.
“Going. Oliver isn’t here. Or isn’t available.” My eyes move briefly to the reception desk again. “It was just a visit on the fly, nothing arranged.”
Fin snaps his fingers. “He’s out of the office all day. I remember now. Out of London, in fact.”
“Oh.” He never mentioned it, but then we don’t much talk about his work, though he likes to hear about my day. “No worries. I’ll catch him later.”
“Got time for a coffee?”
“No, that’s fine. You must be busy too.”
“Got time for a coffee?as a pretext for me teasing out all the juicy details Oliver’s not sharing?”
“Nope!” I reply with a laugh.
“So you don’t want to hear how he’s skipping though the office, singing Disney songs, and sniffing tulips?”
“He issonot the skipping type.” I eye the flower arrangement on a nearby table. No cheap and cheerful tulips there.
“But wouldn’t that be something?” Fin says, rubbing the sandy bristles on his chin.
“Something freaky,” I sort of sing under my breath as Fin turns and indicates a nearby door with raised brows.
“That coffee?”
“Sure.” I shrug. “Why not?”
“Fancy,” I murmur as he closes the door behind us. I’m not sure why I say it, other than that it is. It’s not an office—more like an informal meeting room. The room is decorated in muted tones and dark wood, the decor simultaneously masculine and soothing. Abstract art hangs from the walls, a coffee bar taking up the whole back wall.
“How d’you take it?” he asks, standing at the fancy inbuilt coffee machine. “Latte? Cortado? This baby does them all.”
“Flat white, please.”
I take a seat as Fin pushes a couple of buttons, producing a perfect-looking coffee in an elegant white cup and saucer.
He takes a seat opposite me, crossing one long leg over the other. “What’s funny?”
“Just the malicious gleam in your eye.”
“Not malicious, more . . .”
“Mischievous?”
“Gotta have something to entertain me,” he says, sipping from his cup. “Seriously,” he adds, setting it down on the marble coffee table between us. “I’m really happy for both of you.”
“Thank you.” I’m oddly warmed and more than a little embarrassed as I reach into my purse and pull out my glasses and my phone.
“I don’t know what you’ve done to him, but he’s really happy.”
His words make me glow. “He makes me happy too.”
