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One
Lucy
One year ago
The first time I meet Darius Amin, I’m huddled in an office supply closet. Shelves of pens, staplers, notepads and envelopes loom on every wall, and I’m gripping a pack of highlighters and counting down from one hundred.
Sometimes I get overwhelmed, you know? Sometimes the world out there, even in the Accounts department, gets to be too much, and I need a minute. So this supply closet is my escape hatch; my chosen place to run and hide.
Not for long.
Just long enough to breathe, and count, and pick out pretty highlighters, clutching the pack with clammy hands. Any second now, I’ll go back out there and pretend I was never gone, keeping my head down like a good worker.
The ring of phones drifts through the closed door, and it’s dusty in here. Makes my nose itch. The whole space is lit by a single light bulb, dangling on a string overhead. It’s not thenicest space, but when the panic comes on without warning, rising and crashing like the tide, I’ll take whatever I can get.
Privacy.
A small, enclosed space—like a safe little burrow.
And pretty new highlighters for my planner.
Okay: in… out. In… out. Wrinkling my nose at the dust, I breathe slowly, still counting down through the sixties.
Voices drift past the closet, their footsteps coming so close the door rattles, and I stiffen against the nearest shelf. But the voices fade, and I gust out a long sigh, rubbing my thumb along the plastic packet edge.
Why?
Why do I get like this?
Why are the smallest things in life so freakinghardfor me sometimes? Because ninety percent of the time, I am Capable Lucy. Reliable Lucy. The girl people bring their myriad problems to, with blind faith that I will come up with a solution. Then, once in a while, it’s like a switch gets flipped in my brain, and I wind up… here.
Breathing dust.
Sweating into my cardigan.
Hoping and praying that no one catches me in this state. What would they say? What would theythink? Anxious tears brim in my eyes, and I blink them away, tugging my pencil skirt straight. No time for that level of meltdown. Not here. I’ve got spreadsheets to work on.
So when Darius Amin opens the door without warning, slipping inside the supply closet, I’m on the tail end of my meltdown. My breaths are more even, my cheeks are cooling, and my eyes are dry. I’ve patted down my hair and given myself a little pep talk, ready to get back out there and face the world.
Thenheslides into my space: the man I’ve only ever seen from a distance in this company. The star composer who createsthe music for all our videos; the heartthrob who makes all the interns swoon. With his dark, wavy hair flopping over his forehead, soulful brown eyes and bronze skin, Darius Amin is even more startling close-up.
He must move like a panther to sneak in here like that without warning. The walls on this floor are so thin, the doors vibrate in their frames whenever someone sits down too hard.
“Oh.” Darius blinks at me, jerking to a stop. “Hello.”
Crowded back against the shelves, I give an awkward wave. “Hi.”
And it’s mortifying to be caught like this,suffocatingto be with a man like this in a space so small, but Darius’s broad shoulders block the exit, and he’s too busy staring at me to move.
Staring.
Frowning slightly, thick eyebrows pinched.
Probing me from head to toe, his warm brown gaze roaming over my cardigan, my tights, my simple flats, and back up to my blushing face.
“Are you alright?” Darius asks, ducking down to meet my eye.
His voice is deep and smooth, like rich melted chocolate. It raises the tiny hairs on my arms, and I wrap myself in a hug like I can save myself from this indignity.
