Page 42 of True Colors

I bristle. “Erin⁠—”

She lifts a manicured hand. “You know it, too.”

Yeah, I do.

“Talking to her is like trying to decode alien speech.” She rises and walks toward the wall-to-ceiling windows. She can’t sit still, always on the move, like me, which is why we get along so well. And this is why we didn’t work out as a couple.

Once upon a time, we dated.

It was at NYU. I was twenty. She was twenty-one. We ended things because we were too similar—too competitive—and because my heart was never in it the way hers was.

Now we’re colleagues.

Lately, though, something has shifted on her end. Not mine. I see it in the way she lingers, in the way her gaze stays a beat too long.

I’m not blind. I know she wants more from me than I can give. I’m not attracted to her—not even remotely. I keep hoping we won’t have to name it out loud, but if she doesn’t stop coming on to me, subtle as it is, I suspect we will—especially since she and her boyfriend broke up a couple of months ago.

She leans against the frame, arms crossed. The sun is behind her—gold halo, perfect cheekbones, textbook corporate powerhouse.

“So, how did it really go with her?” she asks.

I shrug. “It was fine.”

“She stuttered a lot, didn’t she?” Erin smirks. “She always does and always will. It’s who she is.”

“It’s not incompetence,” I say. “It’s physiological.”

Erin lifts an eyebrow—mildly impressed. “Dot’s been lecturing you, I see.”

“She has a point.”

“Mm.” Erin tilts her head. “Are you defending her?”

“I’m observing her.” I clear my throat. “She’s smart.”

“Smart doesn’t always mean fit for leadership.”

“She’s not in leadership,” I point out.

“And let’s keep it that way.”

I look away.

Erin steps closer, voice softening. She leans against my desk, close to my chair, close to me. “Luther, I know you. I know how hard you try to do well. To lead well.”

There’s tenderness there—real or strategic, I’m not sure.

“You’ve been lonely these past few years,” she adds, a hand on my shoulder. “The rotations. The expectations. The pressure. I’m here. You know that.”

I don’t flinch at her touch, but internally something locks.

Not this. Damn it!

She’s raw right now—her boyfriend cheated on her and then walked away. I genuinely feel for her. But sympathy isn’t a reason to cross a line. I won’t be her rebound.

“We shouldn’t—” I begin.

“We’re adults,” she cuts in gently. “And we work well together.”