A FOOL FOR YOU

Chapter 2

The audit was in his inbox at 4:58 PM on Thursday.

I knew he would notice the two minutes. I did it anyway.

He didn’t reply that night. I didn’t expect him to.

But then a message came on my phone at 11:43 PM.

Good work. See you at eight-thirty.

-----

Friday morning. Thirty-seventh floor. Eight twenty-nine.

I walked into the debrief room and Zach was already there, sleeves rolled, coffee in hand, my audit projected on the screen behind him with three sections already annotated in red. He looked up when I walked in.

“You’re early,” he said.

“You said eight-thirty.”

“I said eight-thirty hoping you’d get here at eight-fifteen.” He said it like that was a completely normal thing to say to someone. “Sit down.”

We worked for two hours. And then he suddenly asked;

“Why brand consulting?”

I glanced up. “Why Creative Director?”

“I asked first.”

“I’m good at seeing what’s broken and knowing how to fix it.” I closed my laptop. “Your turn.”

“Same answer,” he said.

I looked at him for a moment. He looked back.

My phone buzzed. I looked down. Victor, my stupid ex-boyfriend. Third time this week. I declined the call and put the phone back in my bag and when I looked up Zach was watching me with an expression I couldn’t read.

“Problem?” he said.

“No.”

He didn’t push it. I noted that too.

-----

Sebastian Cole showed up at lunch.

He walked into Pinnacle Group’s lobby like he owned it, which he almost did ; Zach’s oldest friend, partial investor, permanent fixture.

Tall, easy, the kind of handsome that was entirely unthreatening because he’d clearly decided long ago to deploy it only for charm. He spotted me waiting for the elevator and grinned like they already knew each other.

“You’re the consultant,” he said.

“You’re very observant,” I said.

He laughed. Actually laughed. “Sebastian. I’m harmless, I promise. Zach’s told me about you.”

“Has he.”

“Nothing specific. Just that you took his seat and didn’t apologize and he’s been weird about it since.” He said it with the comfortable confidence of someone who knew exactly where the line was and liked standing just beside it. “That’s basically Zach’s love language, for the record. Someone not apologizing to him.”

The elevator opened. They both got in.

“How long have you known him?” I asked.

“Twelve years. Long enough to know when he’s interested in someone and long enough to know he’ll make it incredibly complicated.” He pressed thirty-seven. “Friendly warning. Not a discouragement.”

“I work for him,” I said.

“Technically you work with him. You’re contracted. Independent.” He glanced sideways at her. “I looked it up.”

I stared at him. “Why?”

The elevator opened. He stepped out and turned back with that grin still in place.

“Because he asked me to,” he said, and walked away.

-----

Cassie , my best friend was waiting for me at the bar.

I sat down, drank half my glass in one go, and Cassie stopped mid-sentence.

“What’s wrong?” She asked.

I put the glass down. “My new client. The Creative Director.”

Cassie waited.

“He’s the man from the café.”

Cassie’s expression went through four stages in about two seconds ; confusion, recognition, delight, and then the particular gleam of someone who was going to be insufferable about this.

“Absolutely not,” I said.

“I haven’t said anything.”

“You have the face.”

“I just think,” Cassie said carefully, refilling both their glasses, “that the universe is trying to tell you something and you are, as usual, arguing with it.”

“He’s controlling. He’s my structural lead. He had his friend investigate my contract status.” I ticked them off. “Those are three separate red flags.”

“”Maybe he’s just a thorough person?”

I looked at it both ways on the cab ride home and didn’t land anywhere comfortable.

My phone buzzed again. This time it wasn’t Victor.

There’s a thing next Thursday. Industry dinner. You should come.

; Calloway

I looked at it for a long time.

Is that a professional request? I typed back.

Three dots. Then:

Does it matter?

I’ll check my schedule.

He replied in under a minute: You’ll come.

I hated that he was right.

—————

I told myself I wasn’t dressing for him.

I wore the black dress anyway. The one with the clean neckline and the hem that stopped just above the knee. Professional. Appropriate. Completely coincidental.

The industry dinner was at a restaurant in Midtown that cost more per plate than my yearly rent. I stepped in.

He found me at the bar within four minutes.

“You came,” he said.

“You said I would.”

“I know.” He flagged down the bartender without looking away from me. “Whiskey for her. Neat.”

I looked at him. “You don’t know what I drink.”

“I watched you order at the debrief. You had it black, no sugar. People who drink their coffee like that drink their whiskey neat.” He said it simply, like it was just data, not the fact that he’d been paying that kind of attention. “Was I wrong?”

“You weren’t wrong,” I said.

Something moved in his face. Quiet and fast, like he’d felt something and immediately filed it away somewhere I couldn’t reach.

We talked through dinner and to my suppose I actually enjoyed the conversation. I laughed at something Sebastian said from across the table. I felt Zach watching me laugh and did not look at him.

After dessert I stepped outside for air. The city was doing its usual thing ; loud and lit and completely unbothered. I stood on the pavement and breathed it in and then he was there, beside me, jacket on now, hands in his pockets.

“You’ve been avoiding me all night,” he said.

“I’ve been netwo

“You’ve been avoiding me while networking.” He wasn’t accusatory. Just precise. “Why?”

I turned to look at him. Standing this close he was taller than I kept registering ; broad shouldered, that jaw catching the streetlight, looking at me with the kind of attention that made it difficult to think in straight lines.

“Because you’re my structural lead,” I said. “And you look at me like that.”

“Like what?”

“You know like what.”

A long pause. The street moved around us and neither of us moved.

“I’m not your boss,” he said. “You’re contracted. Independent.”

“Sebastian told you he told me that, didn’t he.”

“Yes.” Not even slightly apologetic. “I’m not your boss, Glamour. I’m just a man who can’t stop thinking about a woman who moved my jacket without asking and has been under my skin since a grey Tuesday in October.” He said it flat and direct, no performance in it, which was somehow the most devastating version of that sentence. “That’s all this is. I’m not trying to complicate your life.”

I laughed. Short and honest. “You’re already complicating my life.”

“I know.” A pause. “Do you want me to stop?”

I should have said yes. I had a list of reasons. I’d been composing them since the elevator on Friday. He was controlling. He ran hot and cold. He had his best friend investigate my contract status on day two. I had a rule about men who looked at me like I was something they’d already decided to keep.

“No,” I said.

He didn’t move. Didn’t reach for me. Just looked at me with that quiet devastating focus.

“Come back inside,” he said finally. “I’ll introduce you to the creative lead at Meridian. You’ll want that contact.”

He turned and walked back in and I stood on the pavement for three more seconds feeling like the ground had done something slightly unreliable beneath my feet.