Not my type at all, I lie to myself.
Resting one shoulder against the wall, I offer no apology.
“I'm here now,” I reply tartly.
I don’t mean to be such a prick.
That’s not like me at all.
But this guy is pissed, so naturally I’m on guard.
Vonnie hands me a stack of forms and spreadsheets.
She’s in no mood to save me from my fate.
And I deserve her wrath.
Not only was I an hour late this morning, she’s been the one tasked with every phone call, email and interrogation up until this point. Now she hands me the baton.
I browse it with a cautious thumb flick.
Efficient. Thorough. Precise.
I respect the competence, but also find lists and wordy paragraphs quietly exhausting.
People like him love control.
Me, on the other hand?
I run this studio like a living organism.
Creative chaos. Artists drifting in and out.
Ideas forming organically.
Freedom from the rulebook.
A notification vibrates in my palm.
I open the message.
It’s my sister Talia.
She wants inspiration for birthday party themes.
I know how much my little nephew loves dragons.
I scroll for ideas, sending her a screenshot.
Then I remember that I’m meant to be signing something.
Handing Vonnie my empty cup, I find an excuse to step closer to Marco.
“Balmain?” I ask, already knowing the answer.
It’s the blush that catches me off guard.
The tension easing in Marco’s shoulders.
