Page 3 of A Secret Escape

I ’ve spent my first few weeks carefully orbiting around Marcus like a satellite that didn’t want to crash into the sun.

Even though I work on the fourth floor, and he on the fifth, I still see him all the time. He smiles when he passes me in the hallway, he nods when I speak up during meetings. The other day, I caught him glancing in my direction during a brainstorming session, and I nearly dropped my pen.

It’s fine. Totally fine. Normal workplace crush stuff.

“Feel like taking an early lunch?” I say across the desk to Angela.

“God, yes,” she says, leaning back in her chair and stretching. “If I stare at this fucking spreadsheet any longer, I’ll start seeing numbers in my sleep.”

I lock my screen and we head down the corridor to the staff room slash kitchen, which is thankfully empty .

“Hey, so, random question,” I say, as we sit down at one of the tables with our salad bowls in front of us.

“Ask away,” Angela says.

“Don’t take this to mean anything, because it doesn’t, but what’s Carter’s deal?”

She raises an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

“I mean… like, when I first started, he definitely checked me out by the lift. But then the next day, he called my outfit ‘fierce,’ and last week, he was going on about Heartstopper. But then at Mercury on Friday? His mouth was practically glued to that blonde girl, and I’m pretty sure they went home together. ”

Angela bursts into a snort-laugh, nearly choking on a slice of cucumber.

“That’s just Carter. He’s sort of… fluid, I guess? Bi? Pan? Honestly, I don’t even think he knows. He says labels are overrated. But trust me babe, I really wouldn’t go there if I were you.”

“No, no way, not at all!” I exclaim. “Like I said, don’t take my question to mean anything. No, I was just confused. Like, one minute he’s talking fashion like he’s auditioning for Rupaul’s Drag Race, and then the next, he’s got his tongue down some girl’s throat.”

Angela shrugs, laughing.

“He grew up with a single mum and three sisters. He’s fluent in girl talk. He can talk skincare and fashion for days, but he’ll also be the first to flirt with anything that moves if the vibe is right.”

“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. To my mouth.

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.”

My jaw drops. I was just barely learning to read when he started working here!

I try to think of something clever to say when a woman’s voice cuts through the air from the doorway behind me.

“Hey, Marcus, do you have a minute to take a look at this for me?”

He stands, raising his hand up to acknowledge her while his eyes linger on mine just a heartbeat longer than necessary.

“I have to go,” he says, glancing down at me. “But I’m around if you ever need anything or want to run any ideas past me. Don’t be shy.”

I nod, trying not to visibly melt into my seat. “Thanks, I’ll, um… keep that in mind.”

He smiles one last time, and then he’s gone.

I stare at my salad, almost entirely untouched.

This is fine. Totally fine.

I can handle this.