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“Yeeees.” Scratching my chin, I wince at the water cooler against the far wall, because there’s no way around it. This is going to sound weird. “Do you have a guest list for tonight? Do you know who’s planning to attend?”
“Of course!” Hazel’s positivity beams down the phone, scorching my ear, and fuck—for a split second, I really miss Violet’s quiet sarcasm. “There will be food and an open bar, so of course I have the numbers. Oh, wait a second—”
There’s a muffled thump. A very sunshiney curse. Fingers tap on a keyboard, then a triumphant puff of breath crackles through the line.
“Yes! Here we go. There are seventy three confirmed attendees for tonight.”
Uh-huh. And seventy two of them don’t interest me at all.
“Great. Is Violet Moore on that list?”
Hazel hums, whispering names under her breath as she scans. How the hell that woman stays so cheerful working for Mr Corbin, I’ll never know—and howhetolerates her pluckyinnocence is a mystery. I once saw him glare at a puppy on the sidewalk outside.
“Violet Moore,” Hazel says. “Violet Moore…”
My abs clench as I wait.
This is eternal.
“Here she is!” Hazel says at last, and my shoulders drop down from my ears. So Violetisgoing tonight, that minx. And if she’ll be there, so will I. “Remind her that we’ll be running a car service at the end of the night, won’t you?”
“Gladly.” Thanking Hazel and hanging up, I spin to face Violet’s empty chair, an evil smile spreading over my face.
Violet Moore, at a party.
Violet Moore, after hours.
What will she wear? What’s her drink of choice? Will she lash me with her usual insults, or will she soften up away from the office? I’m not sure which I’d prefer.
All I know is: I willdefinitelybe there to find out.
* * *
Violet returns from her mystery errand after twenty minutes, with her dark bangs neatened and her red lipstick reapplied. She’s wearing an olive green shirt dress and cowboy boots today, and every stride she takes across the office sends the fabric swishing around her thighs.
“Judas.”
Violet nods at me once before dropping into her chair. Unlike mine, Violet’s desk is obsessively tidy, with everything except her mouse, keyboard, and pencil cup kept tucked out of sight in her drawers. I happen to know she keeps cleaning wipes in there too, scrubbing the desk when she thinks I’m not looking. She’s right, I’d mock her for it.
Bet her apartment is an empty white cube with no visible possessions. Bet her favorite playlist is nothing but static, and her perfume is a spritz of cleaning spray.
“I missed you,” I say.
Violet rolls her eyes, logging into her computer. She’s going to ignore me, then; going to be the bigger person. That’s fine. Now that I know she’ll be at the party tonight, I’m all warm and relaxed inside, feeling extra magnanimous. The phones chirping all around us sound like birds tweeting, and the steady rattle of the copier’s paper tray is like waves crashing on the shore.
Violet is back, and this is paradise.
“I sent you some notes on that adventure tour company proposal. For the campaign idea you pitched on Tuesday? They’re in your inbox.” The breeze gusts through the office again, ruffling the mound of crap on my desk until it wobbles.
Violet’s red lips press together, her gaze fixed on the screen. “Thank you,” she grits out. “But if I need your help, I will ask for it.”
I doubt that somehow.
“What are you wearing later?” Should leave her alone, should stop prodding at her, but I can’t help myself. Not when she’s so adorably scrunchy. “We should coordinate. Make sure we don’t show up in the same outfit.”
Violet scowls at her monitor, jabbing at her mouse extra hard. She doesn’t answer me, but that’s fine—we’ll have plenty of time for chit-chat tonight.
Violet Moore on a rooftop under the stars.
