Anastasia
Atticus strolled into my office like he owned it, sitting on the corner of my desk and picking up a golden apple to play with. “Hello. How are you today?”
“Busy,” I said curtly. “And your butt is wrinkling my forms.”
“Why do we even have paper in the office?” he remarked, picking up a random sheet.
“Stop it, you’re messing things up.”
He held up his hands. “Oof, you’re in a mood. What’s going on?”
“Nothing, I told you I’m busy.”
Atticus tossed the apple my way. “Catch!”
“Atti!” I barely managed to stop the flying projectile from hitting my face. “What’s wrong with you?”
“I’m trying to talk to my best friend about my crumbling marriage and she’s pretending to be hard at work,” Atticus replied sassily, his cheery voice hiding the sadness in his words.
I put my pen down an
