4. JAKE

A few minutes before the cafeteria incident.

"If you want to purchase the property," my lawyer informs me. "The funds have to be guaranteed. Otherwise, the sale is out of my hands and the property will go to another bidder. After that, you'll have less than a month to move everything out."

"Don't worry about that. The bonus I'm finalizing will cover the rest of the asking price. But I'm calling you to double-check everything else. I want no surprises."

"No surprises, Mr.Coleman."

"The property can't go to anyone else."

"It won't."

"Send me the latest paperwork."

My lawyer makes a disgruntled noise. I don't care. I'm reviewing everything, because never again will I leave what happens in my life to someone else's discretions. Even if I've worked with Joe for ten years, through hundreds of other transactions, there is no one I trust above myself.

He knows it, too.

"Of course, Mr.Coleman. Good luck with that bonus."

"I don't need luck. Don't forget the paperwork, Joe."

We end the call, and my phone chimes with a notification. The contract in my inbox has Lakefront Property Sale as the subject line.

The property in question is my mother's home. If for some reason I don't win the sale, she will have a month to move out everything she has.

Not happening.

I feel a swell of anger that I need to purchase a home I'd grown up thinking was ours for the last twenty years, only to find out that my father had sold it sometime along the way. And that he did it without telling anyone; the mortgage payments my mother has been paying have been rent payments.

Not his biggest lie, but another one he left us with.

But thinking about the past isn't going to solve anything, and I'm on the clock. I'd stepped away from the office to take this call. The cafeteria is shared by other businesses, but at this hour, it doesn't have much traffic.

I'm about to head back up when I hear a raised voice. The volume is not what gives me pause. It's the fact that I recognize it instantly. Distinctly feminine. Personally grating.

It's Patel.

My eyes flick to the clock on the wall. How is she still here? She never lingers. Patel scarfs down her lunch as if chewing is an afterthought, then hustles back to our floor. Her work ethic is beastly, but even more so recently. I wouldn't be surprised to learn she keeps herself dehydrated just to skip the washroom breaks.

Unable to stop myself, I turn the corner and watch the scene unfold before me. There's not many people sitting at the tables and the starkness of the white walls makes it easy to pick her out, as if I needed any help. I don't. Patel is standing, and her ratio of body-to-clothes is, as always, skewed. Today her upper-half cosplays as a jellyfish on life support. She's an oversized irritant. Still, I watch.

She's speaking to lawyer pricks?

My shoulders tense. Are they leads I've overlooked? Is she mining them for clients? Two weeks to go before Mr.Davies calculates the bonus. I've set everything in motion to guarantee it's mine, but a man should never get cocky. Not when he's so close to getting what he needs. So, I watch her.

Uncharacteristically, her arms are tucked behind her, as if she's some sort of demure woman. Clever bit of camouflaging there.

"—You never know when the other person…" Patel is chewing the edge of her lip. "Well, when she's wanting you to ask her out, too. Sorry, not that I mean to intrude. I just… heard you talk and thought you should know. My opinion."

What the fuck is she going on about? I cross my arms and lean against the wall. She's so occupied with her new friends that she doesn't see me. Good.

When that mousey lawyer with terrible hair starts stammering like puberty's got him in a chokehold, understanding dawns on me. This is… Patel was… trying to ask him out? What? Why?

He's now told her that he's not interested. It's a public (sort-of) rejection. I wait for a sense of satisfaction, as this humiliation might slow down her efforts for a week. More? Not that I want her in shambles. I'm not a monster. But if your greatest competition stumbles a few steps, it's not entirely unwelcome.

Especially if that coworker is Patel.

When her monologue starts, I stare at her. Our accountant Sally is there, too, joining in, but I don't look at her. Patel is wriggling in place and her dark eyebrows have crept together. Uncertainty scrunches her features in a way I've not seen them move before. And her hands are out now, gripping the front of that hideous sweater. She's pulling down the hem, and it's clinging to her thighs?—

With sudden horror, I realize I'm looking at Patel not as some amorphous enemy blob, but with pointed fucking assessment. Why do I care about the nature of her face? There's no advantage to observing that plump mouth?—

When one of the lawyers compares her to a drunkard unable to dress himself, my fingers curl into fists. A muscle in my face twitches at the realization. Detached outrage, I tell myself. That's what I'm feeling. If one is going to insult another person, it should at least be fucking accurate. That man needs his eyesight checked. Appearances notwithstanding, Patel is the most focused person I've ever had the displeasure of meeting. I'll eat my own arm if she has an alcohol problem. Not her.

The situation in the cafeteria ends. Patel and Sally are leaving. I debate slipping away before they see me, but decide to stay.

When she catches sight of me, her brown eyes round with horror, and a certain thrill goes through me. Quickly, she regains her composure and wipes her expression clean. When she passes me on the way to the elevator, we get our shots in. The fight resets my equilibrium, and my body hums with primal satisfaction. Things are what they should be between us.

Instead of following them up, I wait.

When the lawyers pack up their lunch, they have to pass me.

I nod my head at them. "You work at McMillion-Berkeley?"

"So?" says the cherub-looking one.

"Just an observation."

He's not the one she liked. The other one is.

Him, I look up and down, watching him stab the elevator button repeatedly. He keeps shifting weight between his feet. That mop of hair is further mussed up. Is that her type? Seriously?

Not that it matters. I don't fucking care.

When we enter the elevator, I stand behind them. They're laughing about what happened with Patel.

Quietly, I step into their line of vision. "A fair warning, gentlemen."

They stop chuckling and look at me.

"If you find yourself feeling another impulse to comment on a woman's put-togetherness, warranted or unwarranted, asked for or not asked for, I suggest you refrain from speaking." My voice is soft, but not weak. "Robert, the managing partner of your firm, would share this opinion. I would know. We're old college buddies."

Their faces blanch. Robert McMillion is a tyrant. Once he dislikes you, your career is in the pits.

"Not—no—It's not that—" says the one she likes.

"That wasn't an opening for more conversation." I pull my phone out to scroll through some emails.

"Yes, but?—"

"When I say I don't give a fuck, I really mean I don't give a fuck."

The doors open to their floor. When I continue ignoring their existence, they rush out.

That didn't have anything to do with her specifically, I tell myself as the elevator rises again. It was me giving them some friendly advice.