By ten, the office had the steady hum of keyboards and small talk. She hadn’t heard a word of it. The jacket sat folded in her bottom drawer like a lit match she’d hidden from herself. Every time she reached for a pen she could smell him again. Spice and smoke. Heat and trouble.
Her phone face down beside the monitor buzzed twice. She didn’t look. If it was him, she wasn’t ready to read whatever careful words he had lined up for her. If it wasn’t for him, she wouldn’t want disappointment.
“Are you alive or did you turn to stone,” Coco said, sliding into the chair beside her without waiting to be invited. She set two coffees down like peace offerings and tried to peer into her soul. That was Coco’s talent. Charts and budgets by day. Surgical-level friendship by night.
“I’m working,” she
