Chapter 10

10

The next day, I'm so bogged down in spreadsheets that when I look away from my screen, the pale-gray outline of cells swims in front of my eyes. My brain is stuck in a series of SUMIF statements, until the jarring ping of a message on Teams disrupts me from this god-awful task.

Lloyd Fletcher

Is Craig at his desk? He's not online.

I open the message, wary and confused. The fact Lloyd is messaging me about anything is weird. I know he's been quite chatty with some of the other interns, but we haven't spoken one-on-one outside of our few less-than-great conversations so far.

It's so weird, in fact, that I message back the first thing that comes to mind.

Anna Sherwood

What, not even a "hello Anna" first? So much for agreeing to be polite and civil, Fletcher.

Lloyd Fletcher

You last-named me? Ouch.

Hello, Anna.

Is Craig at his desk? He's not online.

Anna Sherwood

He just got back from a meeting, so yes. I'm sure he'll be online in a minute if you need to ask him something.

Lloyd Fletcher is typing…

And then the little message disappears, and there's no reply from him. Not so much as a thank-you. A moment later, his status changes to Away.

Well. Fine. If that's how he wants to be, fine.

I return to Excel, but now the numbers swim on the screen and I can't quite remember what I was supposed to do next. I'm still replaying the last few minutes of my work and trying to block Lloyd's weird messages out of my mind when I hear someone calling, "Craig! Hey. All right?"

As Lloyd walks to the bank of desks across from mine, he catches my eye and nods, half greeting, half thanks.

Well, still. He might have at least messaged thanks before rushing down here. It's not that difficult.

I wrench back around to face my monitor, teeth gritted…and eyes drifting over to watch the two of them rather than focusing on my work. Craig, one of the older members of the team who wears cuff links and a tie without fail, stops plugging his laptop back into the dock to look up with a ready smile for Lloyd.

"Hiya, Lloyd. Haven't seen you around much lately!"

"Ah, you know me. Always keeping busy."

"Always chatting someone's ear off," Craig quips, with the stern sort of look that a parent might give their kid—but then he rolls his eyes and settles into his chair, pushing it out from the desk to face Lloyd better. "My turn now, is it?"

"Yep, your lucky day. It was just about the latest updates on the Phoebus IV…."

My ears prick up. Phoebus IV is the newest model in Arrowmile's car range; Craig looks after the project for our team, and I asked to get involved a bit since I know it's an important one.

But then I hear Craig say, "You might be just as well to talk to Anna, actually. I asked her to pull together the report ahead of next week's meeting, so she'll probably have more up-to-date information than me. I've got to jump on a call in a few minutes anyway. Anna," he calls, and they both turn toward me. I blush; it's so obvious that I've been eavesdropping on the whole exchange. Crap. I sit up straighter and do my best to pretend I'm only just noticing them.

Lloyd stiffens, and he looks less than thrilled about this development.

Yeah, well, that makes two of us.

The last thing I want is one-on-one time with Lloyd. I don't need more reminders of our night together or the kiss, or how one wrong move could ruin my entire summer.

"Anna, are you all right to take Lloyd through some of the Phoebus IV stuff?" Craig asks, completely oblivious.

"Of course." My response is automatic; I don't want to be a "no" person, not here. I can't afford to be. Lloyd says a quick thank-you to Craig, then makes his way toward me—and leans right on my desk, his hands braced against it, just inches away from me. Close enough that I can smell him. Not the cologne this time—something softer, rich and familiar, though I can't quite place it. I edge my chair back a little and breathe through my mouth.

"So you probably already noticed, but Phoebus IV is coming in way under budget right now. I'm trying to work out why. Something feels off."

There's something off about your voice, I want to say. Although it's steady—casual, even—it rings with quiet authority, a confidence that feels more like arrogance. Lloyd waits patiently, expectantly, for me to cough up the information he's after. I count to three before he gives me the dazzling smile I'm beginning to think must be his trademark expression.

With a smile like that and a name like his, it's no wonder everyone falls at his feet to give him anything he asks for.

I lean back in my seat. "What do you need it for?"

He blinks, visibly startled. I wonder if this is the first time he's been questioned about this kind of request, which only makes me dig my heels in further; I'm enjoying messing with him a little too much. I cross my arms and raise my eyebrows, waiting for him to answer.

Lloyd rolls his eyes, amused. "Because, like I said, something's not adding up, but I can't work out what. I know what happens in these kinds of projects—the lab team are so deep in the details they miss the big picture, and someone in charge tries to sugarcoat it for whoever's in charge of them. Someone else is always focused on protecting the investment."

"And what, it's your job to get to the truth?"

Lloyd shrugs. "Maybe. So, are you gonna let me look at those files, Annalise?"

I'm loath to be another person he can walk all over, but I also know that everyone will know if I don't play ball. If I'm a "no" person, not a team player.

"Just this once, then. Go get a chair, Fletcher. I'll give you twenty minutes, and that's your lot."

He bounces up from his spot leaning against my desk and grabs a nearby chair, swinging it into place beside me and then settling low into it with his elbows on his knees. He gives me that smile again, slanted and swaggering.

"That's all I need," he says.

—

It's not that I'm avoiding the other interns. I'm not. I spend a bunch of time with Elaine and Louis (admittedly, because we live together, but still—we take turns cooking dinner, or hang out sometimes in the evenings to watch something on Netflix). I even went to Tasha and Verity's apartment the other night when they decided to do a girls' night, while all the boys went to hang out with Burnley and his PlayStation. So I'm not avoiding them when I turn down lunch invitations—I'm just busy. And when I decline another dinner out, it's more out of paranoia for my bank balance than because I don't want to spend time with them.

When I sneak out at six in the morning, it's only so I can get into the office early to catch up on work. I know the others have an intense workload, too, but I seem to have bitten off more than I can chew.

Maybe this is why they only take second- and third-year students for the internship? Maybe that extra year or two that they've got on me gives them a wealth of experience that means they aren't drowning in reports and spreadsheets and meetings like I am.

The morning is cool and pale; the city is already wide awake, even if rush hour is still an hour or two off. I join a string of other commuters out of the Tube station at Victoria, feeling just like one of them in my blazer and sensible Marks & Spencer shoes.

The rare nights I went out on at college were a reminder of how young I felt. Surrounded by crowds of kids, all of them fresh-faced and barely out of school, with no inhibitions or responsibilities…Not like these people on their way to work. These people matter. They have important things to get on with, lots to do, complex lives to take care of. They don't have to worry about mean roommates or trying to fit in.

And now, I'm one of them.

The office is quiet, the receptionist and security guard chatting lazily over steaming mugs of tea. Hopefully, my team won't be in yet and I can get a solid hour or two of quiet time to focus on the current bane of my life: this automated spreadsheet I "volunteered" to create.

I swipe my pass, but when I go to step through the barriers, I collide straight with it.

I swipe again.

The usual blip! sound is more of a BWOOP, an aggressive indication of something wrong. Across the room, the security guard looks over with a frown and sets down his mug to make his way toward me. A red light flashes on the sensor and I clutch my pass, chest tightening. Is this it—my paranoid nightmare from my first day come to life? They know I'm not cut out for this, that I'm too young and too inexperienced and don't even know how to create a pivot table, and—

A voice slices through the ringing in my ears, just as I'm about to start hyperventilating.

"You won't get anywhere with that."

Lloyd plucks my red lanyard out of my hands, which doesn't exactly relax me. Is that his way of telling me I'm fired? Is this a nightmare? It must be. Where did he even spring up from? Why is he here so ridiculously early?

"This is a visitor's pass," he says. "Didn't you get a proper one last week?"

I shake my head. I think, if I open my mouth, I might vomit all over his shoes. Visitor's pass. Of course. I'm not being sent away in disgrace. As I get a grip on my racing heart, I follow Lloyd over to the desk, where he chats with the security guard and receptionist, then ushers me over to stand against the wall.

I'm too busy berating myself for being such an idiot that I forget to smile when the receptionist takes my photo, but too afraid of making even more of a scene this morning to ask to do it again. I'll have to put up with a mug shot on my new lanyard.

"Michaela didn't say anything about getting a pass," I finally manage to tell Lloyd, who has decided to wait with me. "I didn't really think about it, I guess."

"She probably just forgot. Could've been worse—what if you'd stayed late and gotten stuck? I know you were really keen about this internship, but getting locked in and having to sleep at the office? That's going a little too far."

I laugh, and Lloyd smiles broadly. I notice his shoulders relax and wonder if that's because of me. Like he was worried about my reaction, or something.

"Nope. Just here so obscenely early that this, apparently, was a sign I should've stayed in bed."

Just then, the receptionist interrupts, handing Lloyd my new pass. "Here you go."

Lloyd looks at the photo and smiles—small and earnest, not like the way he does around the office all the time. He offers the pass to me. "Nice picture."

The lanyard is blue this time—Arrowmile cobalt—with my name and photo printed on the pass instead of Visitor . As I take it, my fingers brush against Lloyd's, and I shiver at the contact, the heat of his skin—the memory of his hand in mine, and how it felt when he kissed me.

He's staring at me like he's thinking the same thing. Both of us hardly daring to breathe, both still holding the pass with my fingers against his. His lips part, like he wants to say something—something part of me wants to hear.

But before he can, I snatch my hand back, and the pass with it, and blurt, "Thanks, but it's really not. Look at me—I'm grumpy as anything."

I hold the pass up and, to ruin the moment even more, mimic the face I'm pulling in the photo. But Lloyd just cocks his head slightly, mouth tilting up in a lopsided smile that makes my heartlurch.

"You're not grumpy," he says, and somehow it doesn't feel like he's only talking about the picture. "Just a little fierce."

I look at it again, preferring the sight of my own miserable, grainy face to the endearing expression on Lloyd's face that makes me long to touch him again—to trace the line of his lips with my thumb, brush his fingers with mine as I draw myself close.

I stare determinedly at the photo until Lloyd steps backward, toward the barriers, and says, "Shall we go up?" and the moment is finally broken.

He's not wrong, though. I do look a little bit fierce in the photo.

I like that.

This time, I get through the barriers, no problem.

"So why are you here obscenely early?" he asks over his shoulder as I follow him to the lifts.

Mind your own business, Fletcher. What's it to do with you?

I debate my response for a minute before deciding that if we talk about work, it should stop things getting tense like they did just now. So I admit, "I'm having some Excel trouble. Knowing which formula to use and getting them to work. Currently my whole spreadsheet is just a bunch of ‘#VALUE' errors. It's probably a super easy fix if you know what you're looking for, but…I don't."

"Been there." Lloyd nods sympathetically, but doesn't miss a beat before smiling and saying, "I can help you out, if you like? I had some stuff I wanted to get through this morning ahead of a few meetings, but it'll keep."

"You'd…do that?"

I'm surprised he's willing to help me, after I was so difficult about helping him just yesterday when he wanted some info about the Phoebus IV. After I've been difficult, full stop. I know we said we'd be polite, but I don't think I've exactly been nice and friendly toward Lloyd so far.

"Sure. Why not? Wouldn't be the first time I've helped out an intern. Plus, I do know my way around the sheets."

He winks, making a big joke of it—then seems to realize what his corny joke is implying, and who he's saying it to. Embarrassment colors his face and he starts to gesture wildly. I shrink back, feeling like I've just been punched in the gut.

"Spreadsheets. The spreadsheets, " he amends quickly, but it's too late.

Even if I were willing to accept help, it's a good reminder of why Lloyd is the last person I can ask for it.

The lift stops at the eleventh floor, and I get out.

"That's okay," I tell Lloyd. "I wouldn't want to add to your reputation of just being the guy who ‘helps out' the interns."

"Annalise…"

I wait, but he doesn't have an excuse to offer. He just sighs, dejected, and we part ways.

At my desk, I check my phone as I wait for my computer to come to life, and there's another gut-punch moment when I see a text notification on my screen.

Hi sweetie! Saw your fab news about the internship. How's it going?! Which company are you at? If you ever need a little business advice, you know where to find me!

Scowling, I clear the notification from my screen.

It's a bit rich that after all the years Mom dropped off the face of the earth, now she wants to talk—to give me business advice, imparting all the pearls of wisdom she learned while she was out there being a boss instead of being my mom. What a warm and fuzzy reunion I bet that'd be.

Well, I don't need it. I don't need her help, or Lloyd Fletcher's help, or anybody's. I can do this all by myself.

Correction: I will do this all by myself, just like I've alwaysdone.