Page 27 of Desserts for Stressed People

I snort. “Oh, you must have missed the part of the story in which he was extremely unpleasant.”

“No, I didn’t. There’s a reason they call him Mr. Asshole. But if you get along by chat, maybe you’ve tapped into the secret soft side of the big, scary boss.”

Maybe. It seems much more likely that he has a twin somewhere around the city with his same name. “Well, even if that were the case, I’m not exactly looking for a relationship. Should I remind you I’m still in one?”

“No, you’re not,” she says, then nibbles another bite. “You’re single. Your boyfriend just doesn’t know it yet. It’s only fair, considering you’re in an open relationship and you weren’t informed.”

I shoot her a don’t-be-ridiculous look. “Emma, he’s my boss.”

“Your boss for the next six weeks. Use them to get to know him.” She winks. “Try to break through the heartless façade. Once he’s not your boss anymore, you make your move.”

She’s suggesting I manipulate him, isn’t she? I feel icky only at the thought.

“Just don’t answer his messages anymore. You’re on RadaR to catch that lying piece of shit.”

She’s right. I can’t text with him as Nevaeh. It’s stupid, but it makes my heart feel heavy. After last night, I’ve been looking forward to clocking out and seeing if he’d text again. Now, it doesn’t matter.

“I can’t believe you have the hots for Mr. Asshole.” Emma wheezes, barely containing herself as she holds onto her belly and shakes with laughter.

At leastsomeonefinds it amusing.

* * *

One weekinto the new project, and I have a hold of what’s happening. It’s been a grim week, though. Alex has been away, officially on a business trip, but probably sleeping around, and my new colleagues aren’t what you’d define as friendly. Or chatty. Or nice. I have Emma to thank for not feeling completely alienated.

In their defense, however, the members of my team are extremely professional. They haven’t delivered a single assignment late, and everything’s always so perfect that it makes my heart melt with satisfaction. I get what Shane meant when he called the people on my floor “artists.” My usual colleagues aren’t as precise, not by a mile.

“Here are the invites,” Asha says as she enters my office. I take the folder she passes me, then she’s gone. There’s no “please” and “thank you” on this floor.

With a sigh, I open it. The invites look nice, but what do I know? I’m used to web design, not paper. The clients have approved the draft, and hopefully they’ll like the final version too.

However, there’s something else weighing on my chest now. Inspecting the glass wall, I purse my lips. I’ll have to take this to Shane so he can send it to the clients.

That’s another thing that’s different in this department. On the fourth floor, Billy and I work side by side and meet multiple times a day to discuss one thing or another. Not Shane. He wants emails. I’ve sent him over two hundred in the last week, and no, the irony hasn’t escaped me. Whether as Nevaeh or as Heaven, our relationship remains online.

Everything else about our communication is different, though.

The last email he sent me said, “Ok.” I’ve gotten about fifty look-alikes. The longest one he sent is, “The clients are happy with it.” It referred to the catering company, on which we settled two days ago. The other emails are a series of “Sounds good,” “I agree,” and a few “No, that won’t work.”

I don’t know what he studied at Harvard, but I’m pretty sure it wasn’t communication.

I get up and walk to his office on the opposite side of the floor. Halfway through the corridor, I pass Marina, and I might as well be a ghost because she doesn’t so much as glance at me. The more Idon’tknow her, the less I like her.

And since I’ve joined the team, I haven’t seen much of Shane either. He passes through the corridor a few times a day, but I guess most of the time people go to him. Whenever he walks in front of my office, he still doesn’t look in my direction. It’s like I don’t exist.

Once I turn the corner, I see his deep brown locks past the pristine glass walls of his office. He’s at his desk, with his brows furrowed and creating creases on his forehead as he gazes at his laptop. When I knock on the door, he moves his hand to motion at me to come in, but doesn’t look my way.

“Good afternoon,” I say as I enter. Shit, why is my voice all squeaky like a teenager? “How are you?”

No answer.

After a few seconds of awkward silence, I walk to the desk and hold the folder out. “These are the invites. All done. We just need the clients’ okay.”

His gaze is absent-minded as he turns to me. “Hm? Who are you?”

I swallow, hesitating. What does he mean? He can’t possibly have forgotten me. We’ve been emailing all week.

When I don’t answer, he squints. “Are you the new intern?”