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They didn’t.

“Good for you,” he says, raising a jerky hand to wave my comment off. He’s still standing in the doorway. “I was just speaking with Nanette about the issue of limited mobility during work hours. I’d love to find a solution that would encourage movement.”

Speaking of moving, I notice he still hasn’t.

And then I notice something else, and my eyes flicker down to the bundle of items in his arms.

Two coffee mugs. Forest-green ones, with gold cursive writing across them saying . . . I squint, but his arms shift and the font is suddenly concealed. Coffee mugs, plus a bag of espresso, and . . . are his eyes darting toward the community-shared syrups in the back of the room?

Is he planning to steal the community syrups?

“Anyway,” he continues, catching my eyes and then twisting his wrist to see his watch. “I just realized I’ve forgotten something. You—carry on,” he says, then gives me a stiff smile.

“Thanks. I . . . will. And . . . I’ll see you later?” I venture, dipping a toe into the waters of honesty.

He nods vigorously. Immediately. So quickly I couldn’t even finish my sentence. “Absolutely. And good luck with those steps.”

“Thanks.” But I’m talking to an empty room, because he’s already gone.

* * *

Our secret room has gained a coffee machine.

I smell the coffee beans the second I step into the space.

Hot, brewing coffee gurgling in a small two-person coffeepot in the corner on top of a stack of books. And two forest-green coffee mugs set neatly on the floor beside it. The words clear now in the glow of the string lights.

You Light says the first in flowering gold script.

Up My Life finishes the second.

A little coffee station. With no syrup, I can’t help noting with a smile.

I step over to the mugs and pick one up, turning it in my hand. Hanging illustratively on the words are string lights.

Well, it’s a little cliché, but despite it, I can’t helping feeling a little glow inside myself.

Sam may not be the best face-to-face, but he is truly one of a kind. I’ve never felt so pursued.

This . . . all of this . . . I’ve never been involved in anything so romantic.

I take the coffeepot and pour myself some despite the fact that I’m more of a coffee-and-cream girl and despite the fact that it’s five o’clock and I need to leave.

And, wanting to take a little of the moment with me, and to make a symbolic step forward for us, I clasp the mug firmly in my hand as I go.

Taking the mug with me.

Into the world.

It tastes a bit bitter, I think, but I swallow a huge mouthful anyway as I follow the deep, swirling staircase of the old mansion down and meet Lyla in the foyer.

The entryway is crowded, a bustling group buttoning coats and wrapping scarves around necks, trying to leave for the day, and as I slip my coat over one arm, I see Sam making his way down the stairs.

From across the room I catch his eye and, in a moment of bravery, raise my mug to him. To tonight, I think in my head and take another acidic sip.

His eyes bulge. Actually bulge.

His foot falters on the last step, and he stumbles forward until crashing squarely into the back of Will.