Lucy
O ne year ago
The first time I meet Darius Amin, I’m huddled in an office supply closet. Shelves of pens, staplers, notepads and envelopes loom on every wall, and I’m gripping a pack of highlighters and counting down from one hundred.
Sometimes I get overwhelmed, you know? Sometimes the world out there, even in the Accounts department, gets to be too much, and I need a minute. So this supply closet is my escape hatch; my chosen place to run and hide.
Not for long.
Just long enough to breathe, and count, and pick out pretty highlighters, clutching the pack with clammy hands. Any second now, I’ll go back out there and pretend I was never gone, keeping my head down like a good worker.
The ring of phones drifts through the closed door, and it’s dusty in here. Makes my nose itch. The whole space is lit by a single light bulb, dangling on a string overhead. It’s not the nicest space, but when the panic comes on without warning, rising and crashing like the tide, I’ll take whatever I can get.
Privacy.
A small, enclosed space—like a safe little burrow.
And pretty new highlighters for my planner.
Okay: in… out. In… out. Wrinkling my nose at the dust, I breathe slowly, still counting down through the sixties.
Voices drift past the closet, their footsteps coming so close the door rattles, and I stiffen against the nearest shelf. But the voices fade, and I gust out a long sigh, rubbing my thumb along the plastic packet edge.
Why?
Why do I get like this?
Why are the smallest things in life so freaking hard for me sometimes? Because ninety percent of the time, I am Capable . Reliable . The girl people bring their myriad problems to, with blind faith that I will come up with a solution. Then, once in a while, it’s like a switch gets flipped in my brain, and I wind up… here.
Breathing dust.
Sweating into my cardigan.
Hoping and praying that no one catches me in this state. What would they say? What would they think ? Anxious tears brim in my eyes, and I blink them away, tugging my pencil skirt straight. No time for that level of meltdown. Not here. I’ve got spreadsheets to work on.
So when Darius Amin opens the door without warning, slipping inside the supply closet, I’m on the tail end of my meltdown. My breaths are more even, my cheeks are cooling, and my eyes are dry. I’ve patted down my hair and given myself a little pep talk, ready to get back out there and face the world.
Then he slides into my space: the man I’ve only ever seen from a distance in this company. The star composer who creates the music for all our videos; the heartthrob who makes all the interns swoon. With his dark, wavy hair flopping over his forehead, soulful brown eyes and bronze skin, Darius Amin is even more startling close-up.
He must move like a panther to sneak in here like that without warning. The walls on this floor are so thin, the doors vibrate in their frames whenever someone sits down too hard.
“Oh.” Darius blinks at me, jerking to a stop. “Hello.”
Crowded back against the shelves, I give an awkward wave. “Hi.”
And it’s mortifying to be caught like this, suffocating to be with a man like this in a space so small, but Darius’s broad shoulders block the exit, and he’s too busy staring at me to move.
Staring.
Frowning slightly, thick eyebrows pinched.
Probing me from head to toe, his warm brown gaze roaming over my cardigan, my tights, my simple flats, and back up to my blushing face.
“Are you alright?” Darius asks, ducking down to meet my eye.
His voice is deep and smooth, like rich melted chocolate. It raises the tiny hairs on my arms, and I wrap myself in a hug like I can save myself from this indignity.
From losing my head over the company heartthrob.
Swooning like all those interns.
I may not be a heart-stopper myself, but a girl needs some pride, damn it, and Darius Amin is not the kind of man for me.
I knew it from a distance, and it’s been confirmed a hundred-fold up close, because it turns out Darius really is tall and graceful with movie-star good looks, while I’m a bookish, curvy accountant with tortoiseshell glasses.
We are not on the same level. And yet he’s still looking at me like that , with equal parts concern and curiosity. What is going on?
“I’m fine.” The words scrape out of my throat, but I raise my chin, daring my interloper to deny it. “I came in here for highlighters.” Up waves Exhibit A. “Better get back out there.”
And I’ve said all the right things, made all the right moves to leave, but Darius Amin still stands in front of the door, peering at me. My tummy squirms. “It’s , isn’t it?”
Um. Yeah.
But how does he know my name? This is a pretty big office, and our paths have never crossed before. Did he see me and ask someone who I was? Did he notice me the way I noticed him?
No. That’s ridiculous.
That’s a love-struck intern level of delusion.
“Yes. And you’re Darius?”
Cringe. As if everyone in this building doesn’t know the composer’s name.
But he smiles, slow and warm. “That’s me. Nice to finally meet you, .”
Finally? Finally meet me? What does that mean? And why is he opening the door for me like that, waving me out into the corridor like a gentleman?
“We should get coffee,” Darius says, his words ringing in my shocked ears. He turns and leans in the supply closet doorway, still pinning me with that intense gaze. “Something tells me we would be great friends.”
Friends.
…Right.
My stomach sinks, but I force myself to nod and smile, fiddling with the highlighter packet. “That would be lovely.”
Because of course he only wants to be friends. What else would Darius Amin want from me? And I should be happy, not queasy and disappointed, because friends are a blessing.
Even startlingly handsome friends.
“Tomorrow?” Darius presses. He really wants this coffee, huh?
My head nods, mechanical.
Guess I just befriended the company heartthrob. Huh.
My stomach churns all the way back to my desk.