Ex-change

Chapter Three: The Art Of Pretending To Be Professional

It was too early for this. Too early for Damien Carter, too early for professionalism, and definitely too early for Jenna’s level of enthusiasm.

I had barely set my bag down at my desk, the strap still sliding off my shoulder, when I felt the all-too-familiar buzz of my phone. That sharp vibration that somehow always felt louder in the quiet hum of the newsroom. I didn’t even have to look. It was Jenna. It was always Jenna. And I knew—knew with the kind of dread only a co-worker who could create a full-blown theatrical scene out of spilled almond milk could inspire—that I was about to be dragged into something. Again.

Jenna (11:34 AM): “Emergency. Coffee machine down. I’m dying. Pls, fake an emergency. STAT. 🙏🏽”

This was the third coffee-related emergency this week. Third. As in, more than two but less than a full-blown intervention. At this point, I was convinced Jenna needed caffeine more than oxygen, and frankly, I was starting to believe she might actually try to breathe it in if that were an option.

I stared at the message. I could already hear the drama in her voice—the breathy panic, the exaggerated urgency. She’d never been one to suffer in silence. No, suffering for Jenna had to be a group project.

With a resigned sigh that came from somewhere deep in my soul, I typed out my response:

Me (11:34 AM): “You’re a grown woman, Jenna. Deal with it.”

Jenna (11:35 AM): “I’m in a life-or-death situation here. I need the emotional support of my work wife.”

She always played that card. “Work wife.” Like it was legally binding. I groaned and was just about to hit her with a sarcastic reply—probably something involving a funeral for the coffee machine and her overblown sense of tragedy—when I heard it. A loud, overly dramatic thud. Followed by the kind of gasps you’d expect in a high school theater production of Romeo and Juliet.

"Adrianna!" Jenna’s voice rang out across the room like a dying starlet on a soap opera. "I think I’m... I think I’m dying!"

I barely had time to glance up before Jenna flung herself onto the floor next to the coffee machine, clutching her chest like she was mid-heart attack in a melodrama. "I... can’t... live... without coffee!"

The newsroom froze. Silence, like the calm before a storm, settled over us. Mr. Callahan didn’t even look up from his computer. He didn’t have to. He’d seen worse. Or at least, he’d seen Jenna.

"Jenna, for the love of God, get up," he said without even a flicker of emotion.

Damien, who had entered the room with the kind of quiet poise usually reserved for movie detectives or private school headmasters, raised an eyebrow at the spectacle. "Is this... normal?"

I opened my mouth to answer, but the smirk already forming on his face made me pause. The last thing I needed was for the new guy to think my life was some kind of walking sitcom.

I grabbed my phone, thumbs already flying:

Me (11:36 AM): “Fine, I’m coming. Don’t die on me.”

Immediately, Jenna sprang back to life like a caffeinated jack-in-the-box. Her next message came through before I could pocket my phone—just an image of her finger pointing dramatically down at the broken coffee machine like it was a murder weapon in a crime scene.

"This is serious business," she said aloud, no doubt to make sure everyone within a three-mile radius was aware of the gravity of the situation.

"Seriously?" I muttered under my breath as I walked over. “You’re lucky I like you, or I’d let you finish this Oscar-winning performance.”

Damien followed me. He looked amused—annoyingly so—as if he’d stumbled onto his own personal reality show and decided to enjoy the ride. "Wow. I had no idea ‘office drama’ included this level of performance."

I raised an eyebrow, resisting the urge to remind him he was still on his probationary period. "Let’s just get back to work, Mr. Carter. We’re supposed to be professionals here."

His grin widened. "Uh-huh. And how’s that working out for you?"

The coffee machine, for what it was worth, looked like it had been through a war—half-dismantled, blinking one sad little red light as if crying out for help. I retrieved what could generously be described as coffee and handed it over to Jenna. She took it with both hands, reverently, like I’d just handed her a priceless artifact. She sipped. She sighed.

"I’m saved," she said, like a line from a movie where the hero just got airlifted from a desert island.

Behind me, Damien chuckled. "This is the real heart of corporate life, huh?"

I turned to reply, fully ready to deploy some Grade-A sarcasm, but paused. He was watching everything with an almost amused intensity, like he was cataloging our weird little world. There was something... unreadable about him. Serious, but not unfriendly. Observant. Like someone who might turn out to be more trouble—or more fun—than expected.

"You get used to it," I said. "It’s either the coffee machine or our egos that are usually broken around here."

Damien chuckled again, a low, easy sound. "I think I’m going to like it here."

Oh no.

"Well," I said, trying to summon up my usual dry sass, "now that your caffeine fix is settled, we should probably get back to being ‘professionals,’ right?" I added some air quotes, just to make the point.

"Right," Damien replied, eyes gleaming. "But what is ‘professionalism,’ really? Is it pretending to care about things you don’t care about?" He gestured to the stack of unread files on his desk. "Or is it more about not making the coffee machine cry on the first day?"

I snorted—loudly—and almost regretted it. Almost.

"You know," I said, giving him a side glance, "I might actually start enjoying this partnership if you keep the sarcasm levels this high."

Before he could fire back, Jenna, now fully recharged, sprang back into leader mode. "Alright, let’s get to work, people! We’ve got a juicy scandal to unravel, and this coffee won’t drink itself."

"Spoken like a true professional," I muttered, and caught Damien’s smirk just as I turned.

And that was it—our day had officially begun. A chaotic, caffeine-fueled mess with just enough energy, sarcasm, and new blood to make me wonder if maybe, just maybe, things were about to get interesting around here.