Page 5

“That makes sense,” I say. “Sort of.”
We share a laugh as we dig into our salads but then Angela’s phone beeps. She glances at it.
“Fuck, I totally forgot. I need to pick up my mum’s prescription before the pharmacy closes at five. Sorry, babe. I’ll be back in a few.”
She closes her salad and puts it back in the fridge.
After she’s gone, I scroll through my phone, thankful for the quiet moment, when someone slides into the seat opposite me and I forget how to breathe.
“Mind if I join you?” Marcus asks, his gorgeous smile making my pulse skyrocket.
Okay. Sure. Words. I can do words.
In front of him on the table is a mug of black coffee and an apple.
“Sure,” I say, completely calm and normal and definitely not panicking.
“You settling in alright now?” he asks. “You must have been here now… what - almost a month?”
I nod, stabbing my fork into a cucumber in the bowl in front of me. “It’s going okay, thanks. I’m still trying to wrap my head around the tone of voice document for every bloody e-mail. It feels like trying to write tweets with a personality disorder.”
He laughs. “That’s not far off, honestly. I used to say it should be called “how to sound trendy without offending legal.”
I laugh too, maybe a little too hard, but honestly, he could say anything and I would grin like an idiot.
“Have you been doing social media long?” he asks.
I shrug, tucking a strand of hair behind my ear. “Sort of. I started out doing freelance stuff for some indie brands during uni, then ended up working for a café for a bit, but this is my first corporate job.”
He smiles. “You’ve got a sharp eye. That approach you suggested for the Maison Élan rebrand? Taking their heritage elements but modernising the décor – you read exactly what the client was looking for without them even realising.”
The way he pronounces ‘Maison Élan’ with a perfect French accent sends a delicious shiver down my spine, his voice making the words sound like velvet against my ears.
A warm flutter appears in the pit of my stomach, rippling upward through my chest, and I bite my bottom lip in an attempt to hold back the smile threatening to betray everything I’m feeling.
Why is he like this?Why does he have to be charming and supportive and sit directly across from me like he doesn’t know what that mouth is doing to me?
God, his lips look so soft.
“I mean it,” he continues, completely unaware of my mental spiral. “It’s refreshing to have someone new on the team who actually gives a damn.”
And then – I swear – his gaze drops for a second. Tomymouth.
Or maybe I imagined it. Maybe this salad dressing is laced with some kind of hallucinogen.
I find myself glancing at his hands, looking for the telltale sign of a wedding band.
But his fingers are bare, no ring in sight.
His hands are strong and elegant, like him. Smooth, golden skin. Long fingers that wrap gently around the curved handle of his mug.
I catch myself wondering how they might feel against my skin, and quickly stop before he notices the flush creeping across my cheeks.
I clear my throat, lifting a tiny square of lettuce to my mouth.
“You’ve been here a while, right?”
He laughs again. “You could say that. Just over twenty years now.”