11. The Trouble With Almost-Kisses
11
THE TROUBLE WITH ALMOST-KISSES
MACKENZIE
I’ve learned a lot of lessons in the corporate world. One lesson I haven’t learned is how maintain professional composure the morning after almost kissing your CEO during a power outage. Especially when you've spent twenty years building a reputation as someone who would never, ever do something so cliché.
"Your 9 AM staff meeting needs an agenda," Lucia announces, dropping into my visitor's chair. "Unless 'pretending last night never happened' counts as a discussion topic?"
"We're focusing on Keith's feedback initiative." I type furiously, determinedly not thinking about how Alex's hands felt on my waist or how the lightning had made his eyes look impossibly green. "Specifically, his creative approach to corporate criticism."
"You mean the poetry slam he's organizing in the meditation room?"
"His methods are unconventional, but?—"
"Mac." She leans forward. "You almost kissed Alexander Drake in Brad's Crying Corner. During a storm. That's like, peak smutty novel material right there."
"I'm not discussing this."
"Fine. But your inbox might have other ideas."
I glance at my email, and my heart stops. There, between meeting requests and HR alerts about Keith's "concerning behavior," is an email from Roberto.
Subject: Important News - Please Read
"No," I mutter, even as I click it open. "No, no, no..."
The words blur together, but certain phrases stand out like neon signs of karma's twisted sense of humor:
"...wanted you to hear it from me first..."
"...Katie and I are expecting..."
"...due in six months..."
"...hope you can be happy for us..."
Katie. His twenty-eight-year-old girlfriend. The same Katie who was his "mentee" during our marriage. The same Katie who's now carrying the baby he always said he didn't want because "children would interfere with our careers."
The same Katie who's fourteen years younger than me and apparently capable of making my ex-husband forget every argument we ever had about work-life balance.
"Mac?" Lucia's voice seems far away. "You look like you just found out Nonna's secretly pole-dancing on the weekends. And…forget I said that, because I just gave myself a scarring visual, and I really can’t-“
I turn my laptop around wordlessly.
"Oh." She reads quickly. "Oh shit."
"Yeah."
"Want me to call Sofia? She still has Roberto's mother's contact info. We could start some really interesting family rumors..."
"No." I stand abruptly. "No, what I want is to do my job. Starting with this staff meeting where we will absolutely not discuss meditation room incidents or ex-husband revelations or?—"
My office door opens, and because the universe hates me, Alex walks in.
"Ms. Gallo." He pauses, taking in what must be my completely professional and not at all devastated expression. "Is this a bad time?"
It's the worst time. It's the absolute worst time for him to be standing there in his perfectly tailored suit, looking concerned and solid and nothing like Roberto with his midlife-crisis sports car and his younger girlfriend and his sudden desire for parenthood.
"Actually—" Lucia starts.
"It's fine," I cut her off. "The staff meeting, right? I was just finishing the agenda."
His eyes narrow slightly. After last night, he seems to have developed an annoying ability to read my mood. "We can reschedule if?—"
"The meeting starts in twenty minutes." I grab my tablet, nearly dropping it. "We should head to the conference room before Keith starts another revolution."
"Mac." His voice drops lower, and I absolutely cannot handle that tone right now. Not today. Not when my ex-husband's email is still burning on my screen.
“I’ll be there,” I declare firmly. “Need some coffee first.”
He studies me for a moment longer, then nods. "After you, Ms. Gallo."
I sweep past him, trying to channel twenty years of corporate confidence and definitely not thinking about how his cologne reminds me of last night's almost-kiss or how Roberto's news makes me feel simultaneously ancient and furious.
Behind me, I hear Lucia whisper something to Alex, probably warning him about my mood. I keep walking. I’m definitely not in the right space to hear my sister conspiring with my boss about my emotional state.
Alex’s footsteps fade, as I head to the break room, but from behind me, I can hear the clicking of Lucia’s heels.
A second later, my phone buzzes with a text from Roberto: "Did you get my email? Can we meet for coffee to discuss?"
And just like that, my carefully constructed professional facade cracks.
Now, in the break room, I start reaching for the cabinets, grabbing everything in eyesight. I can feel Lucia stop behind me.
She’s silent for a minute before speaking. “You planning on rearranging the entire break room, or yo just blowing off steam?” She asks.
"Neither." I arrange the coffee pods by intensity level, ignoring Keith's manifesto about "bean equality" taped to the machine. "I'm implementing systematic change through strategic organization."
"Uh-huh." She picks up a stray pod. "Is that why you've color-coded the creamer options and alphabetized the tea selection?"
"It's a science-based approach to workplace efficiency."
"Right. And the fact that you're stress-cleaning like Nonna before Christmas has nothing to do with almost kissing Alexander Drake in Brad's Crying Corner?"
I drop a box of sugar packets. "How did you?—"
"Please." She helps me collect the scattered packets. "Brad's already written three pages about it in the wellness journal. He's calling it 'When CEO Met Consultant: A Corporate Love Story.' There are doodles."
Oh goody. Just what I wanted from Santa for the holidays.
Office fanfiction about my love life.
Seems that, even at my “big age” of forty-two, there’s still no getting past workplace drama .
"Nothing happened," I insist, though my treacherous mind flashes back to how Alex looked in the lightning flashes, how his hands felt on my waist, how?—
"Your face is doing that thing again." Lucia interrupts my thoughts. "The same thing it did when Roberto first asked you out, except this time you're not twenty-five and hopefully smarter about emotionally unavailable men in expensive suits."
"I am not?—"
"Ms. Gallo?" Emma appears in the break room doorway, tablet in hand. "Mr. Drake would like to see you in his office. He cancelled the staff meeting, but still would like a word. Something about Keith's latest... initiative."
I look past her to where Keith has apparently transformed the ping pong table into what he's calling the "Round Table of Resource Revolution." He's wearing a crown made of Post-it notes and holding the paddle like a scepter.
"Now?" I ask, even though I know the answer.
Emma's expression suggests she's questioning every career choice that led her here. "Unless you'd prefer to wait until after he finishes his PowerPoint about 'Breaking the Chains of Project Management Tyranny.'"
I straighten my blazer – navy today, because wearing green felt too much like admitting I'd noticed how it matched Alex's eyes – and head for his office.
Through the glass walls (still hate them), I can see him on the phone, looking devilishly kissable for someone who spent last night trapped in a meditation room during a power outage. His tie is the exact shade of blue as my blazer, which is either cosmic irony or Emma's subtle way of mocking us both.
He waves me in just as I hear him say, "No, Grayson, I'm not breaking the bachelor pact. Yes, I'm aware of the yacht bet. Now, are you going to stop goddamned pestering me, or am I going to have to bring up the Bali-monkey pictures?” He waits a beat. “Alright then. I’ll see you at the Apex club on Wednesday.”
I pretend not to hear as I take a seat, pulling out my tablet. Two can play at the professional distance game.
"Ms. Gallo." He ends the call, and suddenly the office feels very small. “So, about last night?—"
"Keith's presentation actually raises some valid points about resource allocation," I cut in, because we are absolutely not discussing last night. "Though his methods are... unconventional."
"You mean his plan to 'seize the means of caffeination'?"
"His passion for beverage equity is... admirable."
"Is that what we're calling it?" He leans back in his chair, and I definitely don't notice how his shirt pulls across his shoulders. "Because HR is calling it 'concerning behavior requiring immediate intervention.'"
"HR calls everything concerning behavior." I pull up my latest analysis. "Besides, he's not wrong about the coffee machine settings being unnecessarily complex. Did you know it has seventeen different options for foam texture?"
"I'm more concerned about the meditation room incident."
My heart definitely doesn't skip. "The power outage? Maintenance is updating the backup generators."
"Mac."
Oh no. Not the first name. Not the way his voice drops lower when he says it.
"Mr. Drake?—"
A commotion outside saves me. Through the glass walls, we watch Keith march past with what appears to be a procession of developers, all carrying coffee cups and chanting something about "bean liberation."
"Should we..." I gesture vaguely at the parade of caffeinated rebellion .
"Emma's handling it." He doesn't look away from me. "You're avoiding the conversation."
"I'm prioritizing crisis management."
"The only crisis here is how hard you're working to pretend last night didn't happen."
"Nothing happened."
"Because the power came back on."
"Because it would have been incredibly unprofessional."
"Like your blog posts about our corporate culture?"
I freeze. "We've been through this. You have no proof?—"
The office door bursts open, saving me from what was definitely about to be another dangerous conversation. Brad stumbles in, clutching his wellness journal and looking distraught.
"Mr. Drake! Ms. Gallo! There's a situation in the meditation room!"
"Again?" we say in unison, then carefully don't look at each other.
"Keith's turned it into a 'temporary autonomous zone' for 'corporate resistance poetry readings.'" Brad's air quotes are impressive for someone having an obvious meltdown. "He's wearing a beret. And using my emotional support cushion as a podium!"
I check my watch. 10:15 AM. Definitely too early for this level of creative rebellion.
"I'll handle Keith," I say, standing. "You deal with..." I gesture at Brad, who's now over-hugging his journal.
"Actually," Alex stands too, "I think we should both assess the situation. Given last night's... security concerns."
The look he gives me makes it clear we're not talking about security at all.
"Fine." I head for the door. "But if he starts reciting beat poetry about agile methodology again, I'm leaving."
"That's fair."
We follow Brad to the meditation room, maintaining careful professional distance. Which would be easier if I couldn't smell Alex's cologne, or if my traitor brain would stop remembering how lickable he looked.
The scene that greets us is... unique.
Keith stands on my least favorite meditation cushion (the purple one that makes philosophical squeaking noises), wearing both his Post-it note crown and a beret at a jaunty angle. Around him, various developers sit cross-legged, some holding candles (against every fire code we have), others snapping appreciatively as Keith recites:
"Oh Captain, my Captain of Industry,
Your profit margins bring me misery,
Your KPIs are chains upon my soul,
While JIRA tickets take their corporate toll..."
"Is he..." Alex whispers, "rewriting Whitman as tech protest poetry?"
"Could be worse," I whisper back. "Yesterday it was haikus about sprint planning."
Brad makes a distressed noise as Keith switches to what appears to be a freestyle rap about workflow optimization.
My phone buzzes – a text from Roberto: "Can we talk about the baby news? Maybe over coffee?"
Jesus Christ on toast.
I can’t catch a break today. And now this? A coffee with my ex while he gushes about his younger girlfriend's pregnancy.
Been there. Loved that. Hated that, and then divorced that.
And I’ve got the therapy bills to prove it.
"Absolutely not," I mutter, typing a quick 'busy with work' response.
"Everything okay?" Alex asks quietly.
"Fine." I straighten my shoulders. "Just... life stuff. Nothing relevant to this current situation."
He gives me a look that suggests he doesn't believe me, but before he can push :
"And now," Keith announces grandly, "my latest piece: 'Ode to an Almost-Kiss in the Meditation Room' - inspired by true events!"
Oh hell no.
"Keith!" I use my best 'I've managed developers for twenty years and I'm not afraid to use that experience' voice. "That's enough performance art for one morning. Everyone back to work."
"But I haven't performed my interpretive dance about sprint retrospectives!"
"The revolution will have to wait," Alex adds, and I try not to notice how commander-voice sounds on him. "Unless you'd prefer to discuss your performance metrics with HR?"
The room clears faster than the break room during a mandatory team building exercise.
"Well," I say into the awkward silence, "that was..."
“An innovative use of literary devices?"
"I was going to say 'career-limiting,' but sure."
We're alone again. In the meditation room. Again.
"Mac—"
"I should check on Brad." I back toward the door. "Make sure he's not anxiety-journaling about losing his cushion."
"We need to talk about this."
"About Keith's poetry slam? I think HR has it covered."
"About us."
"There is no us." I grip my tablet like a shield. "There's just a CEO and his corporate culture consultant. Who occasionally get trapped in meditation rooms during power outages. And almost..."
"Kiss?"
"Have professional disagreements about workplace dynamics."
He steps closer, and suddenly I'm back in last night's moment, with lightning flashing and tension crackling and? —
My phone buzzes again. Another text from Roberto: "The baby shower is next month. Katie would love for you to come."
The universe, apparently, has a twisted sense of humor.
"I have to go." I practically flee the room. "Reports to write. Cultures to consult. Revolutions to prevent."
I make it to my office before collapsing into my chair. On my desk, someone (probably Lucia) has left a coffee and a note: "Nonna says to remind you - 'Il cuore vuole ciò che vuole.' The heart wants what it wants. PS: She's stress-cooking again. Expect lasagna."
I pull up my blog draft, staring at the blank screen. Usually, I'd have something snarky to say about corporate poetry slams or management's fear of creative expression.
Instead, I find myself writing:
"TECH TRUTH: Sometimes the hardest part of disrupting a system is realizing you might be part of it. Also, never underestimate a developer with a beret and a cause. #CorporatePoetry #RevolutionaryDebates #WhoNeedsTherapyWhenYouHaveWhitman"
I hit post before I can overthink it.
My phone buzzes one more time. Not Roberto, thankfully, but Lucia:
"Nonna wants to know if your handsome boss likes his lasagna with or without meat. Also, she's been watching rom-coms for 'research' and keeps muttering about 'destiny' in Italian."
I turn off my phone.
Some battles – like almost-kisses and Italian grandmothers on a mission – are better fought another day.