Page 67 of Desserts for Stressed People

I step out of my office and walk to his. I know he’s not here, but I’m looking for Marina. She’s sitting at her desk, right outside of Shane’s office. “What if I need to communicate with him?”

“Send him emails. Did you start yesterday?”

He doesn’t answer my emails, but she obviously doesn’t know that. He’s acting like a child. I get that I’ve hurt him, but he’s my boss, and I’m here to helphimsavehisevent—I can’t do that if he refuses to speak to me.

“He must have missed the last one and I can’t get him on his work phone. Can I have his personal number?” I ask Marina.

Keeping her icy-blue eyes on a portable mirror, she spreads a layer of cherry-red lipstick over her plump bottom lip. “Didn’t he give you his number?”

“No.”

She rolls her catlike eyes—like she doesn’t believe me and thinks I’m trying to keep up appearances. Which, considering I haven’t really tried to call him, isn’t too far off the truth.

“We’re not flirting, Marina,” I say with a groan. “I don’t have his number.”

Threading her fingers through her perfect black bob, she shrugs. “I’ll ask.”

I guess that means I won’t have his phone number.

I stomp back to my office, cursing myself and him for this situation. There’s only one solution. Push all my feelings down and enter work mode.

And that’s exactly what I do for three hours. A few journalists are waiting for a press release, and I answer those emails. Once that’s done, I look at videos of the bands the team has selected. It all sounds the absolute same smooth jazz to me. The DJ...that’s possibly worse.

When my work phone blinks with a call, I pause the video and pick it up. “Heaven Wilson.”

“Hi, Heaven.”

I stand, my chair rolling back and hitting the wall. It’s him. I recognize his voice, similar to the voice message he sent me that one time. It’s colder than that, but my body simmers in the sound of him. “Hi, Mr.—Shane. Thank you for calling, I’m sorry—”

“Marina said you needed something.”

I guess we’re back to super-effective communication and constant interruptions. “You didn’t answer any of my emails. I don’t know what the clients think—”

“If there’s a problem, I’ll let you know. Otherwise, assume it’s fine. You need to make a decision about the band and the DJ. And we need a list of whatever equipment is needed for that.”

I grip the edge of the desk. I want to talk to him, to explain. But he’s going to cut me off, and I refuse to play the game of whose voice is the loudest. “Shane, can we talk?”

“There’s nothing we need to talk about, Heaven.”

He still says my name, even if he’s angry. And that gives me the courage to insist. “But there’s an explanation. Let me talk to you.”

“Bye.”

When he hangs up, I locate my chair and sit again. This isn’t going as it should.

I eye the glass wall, but it’s clean. The desk is so white it almost hurts to look at. There’s nothing I can possibly clean, and I’m not about to pour coffee on my computer. Instead, I turn to the entrance every time the door opens, craving a glimpse of him that I won’t get for the rest of the day.

* * *

Thursday’s afoot,and I am not sure if Shane will be at the office. At some point, I guess he’ll have to come back. That point might not be today.

When I hole up in my office, I don’t check if he’s here. If he is, I guess I’ll see him. But by lunchtime, I need to know if the clients have chosen the staff’s outfits, and I venture to his side of the floor.

He’s there—sitting at his desk. He looks up, and when he sees me, he takes a deep breath, then turns to his computer. But now he’s here. Now he has to listen.

I knock on the door, taking a steadying breath when he motions at me to come in. “Good morning,” I say, walking up to his desk.

“Good morning, Heaven.” He keeps his gaze on the computer. “How can I help you?”