It makes me want to work from home every day.
My assistant has offered lunch reservations three times this week. I would rather fast.
The hum of voices rises before I see the cause.
The receptionist appears in the doorway, maneuvering a stainless-steel trolley stacked with trays. Salads. Sandwiches. Fruit bowls.
Something hot that smells aggressively social.
Behind her, a small crowd forms with the speed of a natural disaster.
“Team lunch!” she announces, far too cheerfully.
A guy from the analysts’ team smiles, grabbing a bagel. “Thank you for inviting us.”
Of course.
I close the lid of my sushi box with surgical calm and slide it aside.
People start drifting in. Analysts. Legal. Someone from compliance I haven’t learned to ignore yet.
They gather in clusters, perching on desks, leaning against door frames, speaking too loudly.
This is not lunch. This is a hostage situation.
I consider leaving when Roxy walks in. She doesn’t announce herself. She never does. She just… arrives.
As usual, her dreadlocks are twisted into a messy bun on top of her head, a pencil stabbed through it at an angle that looks accidental. Another pen follows. Two weapons. Balanced. Precise.
What isn’t balanced is how often my gaze drifts to her hair: part bun, part stationery holder. The casual way she stabs pens into her hair is endearing.
I have never used the word endearing before. Never had the need for it. Fuck.
The room subtly reorients toward her.
“Eat!” She claps her hands. “Thank you for this, Liam.” Her smile is blinding. And so very fake.
Chatter ripples through the room as people attack the trolley.
I don’t move.
Her gaze flicks to me for the first time all day.
Sharp. Assessing. Unimpressed.
Not stopping at the food cart, she crosses the room and sits on the other side of my desk.
Her smile still doesn’t reach her eyes. “Stone. You’re not allergic to people, are you?”
I set my chopsticks down carefully. “Only in large groups.”
She leans back and crosses one leg over the other. Her skirt rides up, baring her knees. I shift in my seat.
She is wearing red tights. A deterrent in theory. Ineffective in practice. Still, my gaze lingers on the smooth curve of her knee, betraying me.
“It’s only a small group.” Her voice is the epitome of innocence. “Team bonding.”
If I weren’t having an allergic reaction to the chatter, I might smile. She picks her weapons well, I’ll give her that.
