That almost makes you smile.
Almost.
“The date texted at 9:04 asking if I was still alive,” you say.
Alejandra’s brow lifts. “And?”
“I said yes.”
“And?”
“I said something came up.”
“Did something come up?”
You look at her.
There are moments when attraction behaves like a slow leak, easy to ignore until the structure warps around it. Then there are moments when the entire hidden architecture becomes visible at once. Her jealousy joke. the confession in the office. the lamp. the way she trusted your judgment without asking for reassurance. the way she held the board this morning like a woman stepping over a corpse in stilettos and refusing to wrinkle.
“Yes,” you say. “Something came up.”
The silence that follows is not empty.
Alejandra walks farther in, stopping near the central rack where the hum of machines fills the space with mechanical weather. She looks around at the cold metal and wires and blinking lights and somehow does not seem diminished by them. She only seems more exact.
“I shouldn’t be here,” she says.
“No.”
“I have calls with counsel in fifteen minutes.”
“Yes.”
“And yet.”
“And yet.”
Her mouth softens. “You know what I hate most about last night?”
There are several possible answers. None seem safe.
“What?”
“That when I asked whether she was prettier than me, I already knew I didn’t actually care about her.” She steps closer. “I cared that you were going to dinner with someone else while I was still pretending I only found you irritating.”
“That sounds inefficient.”
“It was.”
“I assumed you valued efficiency.”
“I value results.”
Now she is close enough that the filtered cold air feels warmer where it bounces off her skin. You set down the drive you’re holding because suddenly trusting your hands near delicate hardware seems foolish.
“Alejandra.”
“Hmm?”
“This is a terrible idea.”
“Yes.”
“You’re my client.”
“Yes.”
“You almost got abducted in your own office ten hours ago.”
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