Amara laughs. “I’m just saying, you could do worse. Those shoulders? Whew.”
“Stop.” I rub my temple. “He’s… nice, okay? And helpful. That’s it.”
Greg chooses that exact moment to appear, carrying a jar of Splatters and a look of mild confusion at the scene he’s walked into.
“Did I interrupt something?”
Amara beams. “Nope! Just singing your praises.”
He sets the candies on my desk. “Then I’ll take that as a good sign.”
“Flattery will get you everywhere,” she says and winks at me before vanishing toward her office.
Greg watches her go then glances at me. “She shouldn’t tease you likethat.”
I blink. “She’s just making small talk.”
“Still,” he says. His brow furrows, that subtle frown that makes him look like a very concerned mountain. “You don’t owe anyone a reaction.”
Something in my chest loosens. “Thanks.”
He smiles again—so open, so unbothered—and I hate that it makes my throat feel tight.
On Thursday morning, I find a Post-it on my monitor.
Firewall’s being dramatic again. Thought I’d get ahead of it. —G.
I shake my head, smiling despite myself. He must’ve come by early. No one else in this office uses pink Post-its with tiny doodles of cartoon servers and draws smiley faces in the corner.
Sure enough, when my computer boots up, everything runs smooth as glass.
Amara strolls by and catches me smiling at the note. “Are you two texting yet or still communicating through office supplies?”
“Do you ever work?” I ask.
“Not when romance is happening within a hundred-foot radius.”
“There’s no romance.”
“Uh-huh.”
I crumple the note and toss it in the bin. Ten minuteslater, I fish it back out and stick it in my wallet. For safekeeping.
By Friday, I’ve given up pretending Greg’s appearances are random. He’s like laundry day—inevitable. And somehow, I’ve stopped minding.
My final straw comes when my keyboard starts typing the letter “q” over and over like it’s possessed. Before I can even stand, Greg materializes at my desk.
“Q key again?” he asks, already reaching for his toolkit.
I stare at him. “How did you?—”
“You have the look,” he says.
“What look?”
“The I’m-about-to-throw-this-thing-out-a-window look.”
“Accurate.”
