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Oh, God. Lunch. Sitting across from her at some cramped table while they probably try to talk sports and I try not to visibly combust while she breathes near me. I’ll die. I’ll actually die.

My stomach lurches. Lunch. With her. Sitting across from her in some cramped booth, nowhere to hide while I choke on my words and probably my water too. Christ, no. I clear my throat and force a polite smile. “Uh—I’d love to, but I’ve got… reports to get through before the afternoon.”

Turning down lunch with your new colleagues because you’d rather hyperventilate alone at your desk? Perfect.

Sam shrugs, already halfway gone. “Suit yourself, man.”

Just before she follows him out—she glances back at me. Half a second, maybe less. Eyes catching mine. And then she’s gone. Clean exit, no fuss. Meanwhile, I’m stuck here, rooted to the spot, praying nobody wanders in and asks why the brand-new account lead looks two seconds from dropping dead in an empty conference room.

Chapter 9

Sable

The cold hits the second we step out of the building, winter air sharp enough to bite the inside of my nose. Sam pulls his jacket tighter around himself with a dramatic shiver, muttering something about suing the company for frostbite.

The parking lot’s already thinned out, rows of headlights blinking away one by one, the crunch of tires over salt-gritted asphalt fading into the night.

We fall into the usual small talk—weekend plans, the sorry state of the vending machines, the latest office rumor he’s picked up. I let him chatter, watching my breath curl white in the air until we reach the split between our cars.

“See you Monday,” he says with a grin and a mock salute.

“Try not to put yourself into a gossip coma before then,” I shoot back, tugging my keys from my bag.

He laughs, waves, and peels off toward his dented hatchback. I slip into my own car, the faint smell of stale coffee clinging from the morning commute. The door shuts with a solid thud, cutting off the world outside.

I twist the key in the ignition. The engine coughs once, sputters, then dies.

Fucking typical. Of course. Because why wouldn’t the universe decide to shit in my lap today? All I want to do is go home, sink into bed, scream into a damn pillow—and this tin can decides to roll over and play dead.

“Don’t you dare,” I mutter, jamming the key again.

The starter wheezes with a sad mechanical groan, before choking out completely. My hands slam the wheel, the horn bleating faintly under my palms. “You’re fucking kidding me.”

One more go.

Nothing but a hollow click. I slam the wheel again, harder this time, rattling the dash. Perfect. Absolutely perfect. Friday night in sub-zero weather and my car decides to stage a dramatic death.

A sharp rap on the window makes me jump, heart leaping straight into my throat. I snap my head to the side.

Of course. Because the universe doesn’t know when to quit.

Noah stands there, bundled in his coat, scarf looped tight around his neck, his breath fogging out in steady white plumes. His dark hair is a mess from the wind, a few strands caught on his brow, and he’s peering down at me with that cautious half-smile.

Oh, great. Exactly what I needed.

I press the button, glass sliding down slow between us. Cold air rushes in, biting at my face.

“Trouble?” he asks.

I paste on the flattest smile I can manage. “Nope. No trouble. Just thought I’d sit here in a freezing parking lot for the fun of it.”

His brows lift a fraction. “Your car’s dead.”

“It’s not dead.”

“I heard it sputter from across the lot.”

I tighten my grip on the steering wheel, like I can will the damn thing back to life through sheer force. “Fine. It’s dead. But I’m going to call roadside.”