What the Moon Made

SPECIFICALLY REQUESTED

By 3:17, I have written the same sentence twelve times.

I know because I counted.

Theodore De Luca is one of the city’s most influential young executives—

Delete.

At thirty-two, Theodore Alessandro De Luca has built—

Delete.

Theodore De Luca is an arrogant, unnervingly attractive psychopath who apparently does not understand the concept of personal space—

I stare at the sentence.

Then quickly delete that one too.

“Going well?”

I jump.

Jamie is leaning against the side of my cubicle, holding a coffee in one hand and looking far too entertained by my suffering.

“Jesus.”

“That bad?”

“No.”

“You just tried to murder your keyboard.”

“I’m writing.”

“I can see that.”

He leans closer.

I immediately minimize the document.

Jamie’s eyebrows lift.

“Secret government documents?”

“Yes.”

“Scandal?”

“Absolutely.”

“s*x tape?”

“Go away.”

He grins.

I turn back toward my computer.

The blank document stares at me.

Mocking me.

Three hours.

I’ve been back for three hours, and I have exactly one usable paragraph.

One.

This interview was supposed to be easy.

Profile piece.

Wealthy businessman.

Successful company.

A few quotes about expansion, philanthropy, leadership.

Done.

Instead, I have six pages of notes, half of which I can barely read because apparently at some point during the interview I forgot how to hold a pen.

I glance at my notebook.

International expansion.

Family company.

Private.

Hates interviews.

And, written beneath that in smaller letters:

Why does he keep staring at me?

I close the notebook.

Jamie sees it.

Of course he sees it.

“What was that?”

“Nothing.”

“That looked like something.”

“It was a note.”

“About?”

“The interview.”

“With?”

I look at him.

He knows exactly who I interviewed.

His grin widens.

“No.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“You were about to.”

“I was going to ask a perfectly professional question.”

“You’ve never asked a professional question in your life.”

“That is deeply hurtful.”

“You’ll recover.”

He pulls the empty chair from the neighboring desk over and sits beside me.

I sigh.

“Jamie.”

“Willa.”

“I have work.”

“So do I.”

“Then why aren’t you doing it?”

“Because yours is more interesting.”

I stare at him.

He takes a sip of coffee.

I turn back to my computer.

Maybe if I ignore him long enough, he’ll leave.

Ten seconds pass.

Twenty.

Thirty.

“So?”

I close my eyes.

“What?”

“What was he like?”

“Who?”

Jamie gives me a look.

I give up.

“Theodore De Luca.”

“Yes, Willa. Theodore De Luca. The man whose office you mysteriously disappeared into this morning looking like a frightened librarian.”

“I did not look like a frightened librarian.”

“You wore loafers.”

“They’re comfortable.”

“With little gold buckles.”

“They’re cute.”

“They’re aggressively librarian.”

I look down at my shoes.

I like these shoes.

“He was fine.”

Jamie goes quiet.

I glance over.

“What?”

“Fine?”

“Yes.”

“That’s it?”

“What do you want me to say?”

“I don’t know. Intimidating? Arrogant? Charming? Secretly eighty years old and harvesting the blood of interns to maintain his youthful appearance?”

A laugh escapes me.

“Definitely not eighty.”

“Hot?”

I turn toward my computer.

“I’m working.”

“Oh my God.”

“What?”

“He’s hot.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“You didn’t have to.”

“Jamie.”

“How hot?”

“Can you please leave?”

He leans back in the chair, studying me.

I can feel my face getting warm.

Which only makes his expression worse.

“Wow.”

“Stop.”

“Willa Bennett.”

“Stop.”

“You have a crush.”

“I do not have a crush.”

“You’re blushing.”

“I’m annoyed.”

“You blush when you’re annoyed?”

“Yes.”

“No, you don’t.”

I glare at him.

He smiles.

I hate him.

“He’s attractive,” I finally say.

Jamie presses a hand dramatically against his chest.

“She admits it.”

“I have eyes. That’s not the same thing as having a crush.”

“So how attractive?”

I hesitate.

That is apparently all the answer he needs.

“Oh, shit.”

“Jamie.”

“Like movie-star attractive?”

I think about Theodore standing behind his desk.

Dark hair.

Broad shoulders.

The way his shirt stretched across his chest when he leaned toward me.

The tattoos disappearing beneath his sleeves.

Those eyes.

And that smell.

Cedar.

Smoke.

Warmth.

My stomach does the stupid little flip again.

I shift in my chair.

“Objectively,” I say carefully, “he’s very attractive.”

“Objectively.”

“Yes.”

“Scientifically.”

“Exactly.”

“Peer reviewed?”

“Extensively.”

Jamie laughs.

I smile despite myself.

Then he looks at me a little more closely.

“But?”

I frown.

“But what?”

“You’re doing the thing.”

“What thing?”

“The thing where you pretend something isn’t bothering you.”

My smile fades.

“I don’t do that.”

“You absolutely do.”

I look back at my screen.

The cursor blinks after Theodore’s name.

I tap my finger against the desk.

Once.

Twice.

Three times.

“He was just…”

I stop.

Intense?

Strange?

Possessive?

No.

That last one doesn’t make sense.

“He was what?”

“I don’t know.”

Jamie waits.

“He kept looking at me.”

“During an interview?”

I give him a flat look.

“Helpful.”

“Sorry.”

I pick up my pen.

“He stared.”

“What kind of stared?”

“I don’t know.”

“You’re a writer.”

“I write local news.”

“You still know adjectives.”

I throw my pen at him.

He catches it.

Unfortunately.

“Like he knew me,” I say.

Jamie’s smile disappears.

I hadn’t meant to say it like that.

But it’s true.

That’s exactly what bothered me.

Theodore didn’t look at me like a stranger.

He didn’t even look at me like a man checking out a woman he found attractive.

It was something else.

Recognition.

Except that’s impossible.

I’d never met him before.

I’m sure of it.

A man like Theodore De Luca isn’t someone you forget.

“He asked if we’d met before,” I say.

Jamie raises an eyebrow.

“Had you?”

“No.”

“You sure?”

“Very.”

“Maybe he was flirting.”

I snort.

“What?”

“He wasn’t flirting.”

“How do you know?”

“Because flirting generally involves smiling.”

“Maybe rich people flirt differently.”

I laugh.

“Maybe.”

Jamie hands my pen back.

I take it.

“And then there was the smell.”

He pauses.

“The what?”

I immediately regret speaking.

“Nothing.”

“No. Absolutely not. Come back.”

“It was nothing.”

“You cannot casually say ‘and then there was the smell’ and expect me to move on.”

I rub my forehead.

“He smelled good.”

Jamie stares at me.

“That’s the big mystery?”

“No.”

“Because men have discovered cologne, Willa. It’s been a whole thing.”

“It wasn’t cologne.”

“How do you know?”

“I don’t.”

“Excellent.”

I sigh.

“It was just strong.”

“Bad strong?”

“No.”

Definitely not bad.

“Good strong?”

I hesitate.

Jamie groans.

“Oh, you’re screwed.”

“Would you stop?”

“You’re sitting here thinking about how the man smells.”

“Because it was weird.”

“Sure.”

“It followed me into the elevator.”

“Cologne tends to do that.”

“He never touched me.”

Jamie opens his mouth.

Stops.

Then shrugs.

“Air?”

I stare at him.

“Thank you, Professor.”

“Anytime.”

I shake my head.

This is ridiculous.

I know it’s ridiculous.

There are a hundred explanations.

Expensive cologne.

An overly air-conditioned office.

Adrenaline.

My brain deciding to turn one awkward interview into a full psychological event because apparently I don’t have enough problems.

My computer chimes.

I look at the corner of the screen.

New email.

Jamie stands.

“Saved by Outlook.”

“Finally.”

“Dinner tonight?”

“Maybe.”

“That means no.”

“That means maybe.”

“That means you’ll go home, put on sweatpants, and ignore my texts.”

“Sounds like you’ve already figured out my evening.”

He points at me.

“Seven.”

“No promises.”

“Seven.”

“Goodbye, Jamie.”

He walks away.

I shake my head and click the notification.

My inbox opens.

The newest message sits at the top.

For a second, I don’t understand what I’m looking at.

Then my stomach drops.

From: Elena Rossi

I stare at the name.

Theodore’s assistant.

Maybe I left something.

I glance toward my bag.

Notebook.

Wallet.

Keys.

Everything is there.

I click the email.

Ms. Bennett,

Mr. De Luca would like to request a follow-up meeting regarding today’s interview.

I blink.

A follow-up?

I read it again.

Then again.

We covered everything.

At least, I thought we did.

There is another line beneath it.

He has asked that you return tomorrow morning at ten.

Not would you be available.

Not does tomorrow work.

He has asked that you return.

I lean back in my chair.

Of course he has.

I should check with my editor.

I should ask what additional information he wants.

I should probably point out that interviews are generally scheduled around the journalist too.

Instead, my eyes drift to the final line.

Mr. De Luca specifically requested you.

My fingers stop moving.

Something warm twists low in my stomach.

No.

Absolutely not.

I am not reacting to that.

I close the email.

Then open it again.

Still there.

Specifically requested you.

I stare at those words much longer than necessary.

Across the newsroom, Jamie looks up.

He sees my face.

His eyebrows rise.

I immediately look back at my screen.

My phone buzzes beside my keyboard.

Unknown number.

I frown.

Probably spam.

I pick it up.

One new text.

I unlock the screen.

Unknown: Did you get Elena’s email?

My heart stops.

I stare at the message.

There is no name.

No explanation.

But somehow I know.

Another message appears.

Unknown: Theodore.

I swallow.

Of course.

Of course Theodore De Luca texts like a man who believes punctuation is beneath him.

My thumb hovers over the screen.

Then another message appears.

Theodore: I need to see you again.

I stare at it.

Once.

Twice.

My stomach flips.

And somewhere beneath the confusion, beneath the nerves, beneath every reasonable thought telling me that this is strange and inappropriate and probably a terrible idea…

I smile.