Chapter 7
Chapter Seven
Olivia
I stare at the subject line as if it might answer for me.
Thank you.
Too plain. Too eager. Too… everything.
I type: “Thank you for the chair.”
I delete “the.” Now it reads “Thank you for chair,” which sounds like a caveman sending a receipt. I put “the” back. I add “—it saved my back.” I delete that, because saved is dramatic, and why am I incapable of sounding like a normal professional human being?
I sit back, cross my ankle over my knee, uncross it, and whisper to no one, “Get a grip, Liv.”
The cursor sits there, blinking at me like a dare. Roberto didn’t even make a thing out of it. He made it clear in that even tone of his that it wasn’t a complaint. It was a fixable problem.
Which is why, an hour after he walked out of my office, Facilities rolled in a loaner with actual lumbar support and a seat that didn’t croak like a toad.
Now I can sit longer than five minutes without sacrificing my spine and tailbone. Heaven.
I try again.
Subject: Chair
Hi Roberto—
Thank you for arranging the chair. I appreciate it.
—Olivia
I grimace. Reads like a customer service ticket. I add a smiley. I delete the smiley. I add “so much.” I delete “so much.” I add, “It made my day.” I delete that and groan into my palms.
Trash.
I try again.
Subject: Thank you
Hi Roberto,
The loaner chair showed up. My back and I owe you one.
—Olivia
I stare. It sounds flirty even though it isn’t. Or is it? I can’t tell anymore. The man breathes, and my brain starts leaking out of my ears. I add “Seriously,” to soften it. Now it sounds desperate. I delete the whole thing and start over.
Subject: Thanks
Hi Roberto,
Facilities delivered the loaner. It’s a lifesaver. Thank you.
—Olivia
“Lifesaver.” I wince. I don’t need him picturing me perishing at my desk because a folding chair almost took me out. I backspace lifesaver, swap in “huge help,” and immediately hate it.
The fourth draft dies after “Hi Roberto,” because I realize I am about to add a smiley again and then walk into traffic. I drag the whole thing to the trash before I humiliate myself.
Enough. No email. He didn’t ask for thanks. He saw a fixable problem and fixed it. I’ll say something in person if the universe ever puts him in my path again.
I shut my laptop and gather my things. It’s past 7:00, and I don’t think there’s another soul in the building. It’s so quiet I can hear the HVAC kick and sigh.
I stand and stretch, then look around my not-quite-finished kingdom. The room isn’t all construction anymore. Someone painted the walls a soft cream that makes the ocean light look warmer.
The new carpet is a quiet neutral with a barely-there pattern, a little more plush than what they put in the hallways.
The baseboards and door trim went in two days after the paint.
And yes, there’s a door now. It closes. It locks.
It even has my name on a temporary strip until the real plaque shows up.
All of it happened a week ahead of schedule.
First the chair, then this. I don’t think it’s a coincidence. I can pretend the build just “moved faster,” but I’m not that na?ve. Someone nudged me up the list. Someone with weight. I don’t say his name out loud.
What I don’t have yet is the actual furniture. The order is still somewhere between “in production” and “your delivery window is a suggestion.”
For now, I’ve got a loaner desk that’s a hair too high, a rolling file cabinet, and a lamp that looks like it survived three moves.
The new pieces—the walnut desk with rounded corners, the shelves and cabinets, the small meeting table, the chairs for my not-too-formal sitting area, and the desk chair I actually ordered—are due “soon,” which is the kind of word that means nothing and everything at once.
The chair, absurdly, makes me want to cry a little.
I’ve never had a gesture like that in a workplace that didn’t include an agenda.
He just noticed and fixed a thing and walked away.
He could have told me to file a ticket and wait.
Instead, the chair appeared like a rabbit pulled out of a hat, and that rabbit is ergonomic.
I slide my laptop into my bag, tuck a legal pad on top, and do a quick sweep: pens in the mug, tape measure in the drawer, spare charger coiled.
I flick off the desk lamp. The hall is mostly dark; the motion sensors make lights chase me in a staggered path to the door.
I lock up, test the handle once, and absorb the little thrill it still gives me.
The office smells like fresh paint and new carpet, and underneath it, a little like possibility. I head for the elevator.
I turn the corner and nearly collide with a solid chest and a dark suit.
“Oh—sorry,” I blurt, hand flying to my bag so I don’t drop it. “I didn’t know anyone was still here.”
Roberto stops short, one palm lifting like he’s steadying me without touching me. “You’re fine,” he says, voice low. “I was about to say the same.”
For a beat, we stand there in the hush of the hallway, the elevator light glowing its patient white. He looks like he always does—put together, unreadable—only there’s a looseness at the end of the day that isn’t there during working hours. His tie is still straight. Of course it is.
“I was just leaving,” I say, because my brain can’t put together anything smarter apparently.
“So was I.” He takes half a step back to give me the corner and gestures for me to go ahead. “You first.”
I press the call button. “Long day?”
“Productive,” he says. “Yours?”
“Also productive.” The doors stay shut; the quiet stretches. I hear myself add, “And—thank you. For the chair.” It comes out lighter than my emails sounded in my head. “Facilities dropped it off about an hour after you left. It’s… very much appreciated.”
Something eases at the edge of his mouth. “Good. I’m glad.”
The elevator dings. We step in side-by-side and face forward like we’re both giving the doors our best attention. The car starts down.
Silence blooms. It isn’t empty; it’s charged, like if you rub it the wrong way, you’ll spark. I stand there feeling absurdly aware of where my wristwatch sits on my skin and whether my hair looks adorably unkempt or just sloppy. He is unbothered. Just a man waiting to get off the elevator.
The elevator jolts hard, and then everything goes black.
The gasp scorches my throat as I clutch at the rail.
The car tilts a hair—maybe it doesn’t, maybe it’s just me—but my knees go loose anyway.
“Olivia,” he says, low. Not loud, not sharp. “I’m here.”
The bag strap slides off my shoulder; I catch it with my elbow and hug it to my side like that will hold me together. The quiet is too loud. No fan, no hum. Just my breathing getting fast and thin.
“It’s okay,” he says. “Power hiccup. Happens during testing.” His voice is steady and calming. “You’re safe.”
I try to answer and get half a noise. Air won’t move. The dark presses.
“Breathe with me,” he says immediately, like he’s done this before. “In through your nose. One… two… three… four. Hold.” His voice counts in the dark, calm as a metronome. “Out for six. One… two… three… four… five… six.”
I do it. The first inhale is jagged, the hold feels like drowning, the exhale breaks in the middle. He doesn’t comment. He just counts again, same pace.
“In… two… three… four. Hold.” A beat. “Out… two… three… four… five… six.”
My grip eases a fraction. I find the wall with my shoulder and lean. The car smells like carpet and a hint of his cologne—warm, not sharp. It anchors me in the black.
“You’re doing fine,” he says. “Again.”
We do it twice more in the hopes that my lungs will remember how to work properly. The shake in my hands turns into a tremor I’m not sure I’m hiding well.
A soft click. A whir above us. The fan coughs once. A weak strip of light stutters on over the panel, not much, but enough to turn pitch black into dim orange.
“See?” he says, same even tone. “Generator picked up.”
I nod, then realize he can barely see me. “Okay,” I manage. It scrapes out, but it’s a word.
“Do you want the corner?” he asks. “Feels steadier.”
“I’m good here.” I’m not, but I physically can’t move and don’t want to embarrass myself. “Sorry. Elevators and I aren’t friends on a good day.”
“No apology needed.” He lifts a hand toward the panel; the tiny light catches a silver line at his cuff. “I’m going to hit the call button.” He presses it.
Nothing happens.
He presses the alarm bell. A single polite chime goes off inside the car. Still no answer.
He takes out his phone, glances at the corner of the screen, shakes his head. “No signal.”
I fumble mine out to check because hope springs eternal. Zero bars. “Great.”
“Cameras aren’t in yet either,” he says. “We’re on our own for now.”
“Perfect,” I say, the word about three octaves too high. I swallow. “I’m sorry. If I’d left five minutes earlier, you wouldn’t be stuck in here with me.”
“It’s fine,” he says. “There are worse people to be stuck with.”
Despite my sheer terror, heat brushes my cheeks. I’m suddenly, fiercely glad for the very dim light. “Thanks.”
His lips tip like he’s about to say something else, then he doesn’t.
The air feels different now that the first blush of panic has burned off. It’s still close, but I can hear the faint, uneven fan and the tiny tick of metal somewhere above us. My heartbeat isn’t in my ears anymore; it’s in my throat, annoying.
I will myself to relax. We’re already stuck in an elevator. The last thing he needs is a panicking woman on his hands.
In his hands.
I push the thought down. Could there possibly be a more inappropriate time for those thoughts?
“Okay,” I say, mostly to hear my own voice come out level. “What now?”
“Now,” he says, “we wait.”
“Wait?” My voice pitches higher again.
“There isn’t much else we can do,” he says. “I don’t have a signal. No cameras. No alerts. And I don’t think there’s anyone left in the building tonight.”
That didn’t help. “We wait until morning?” I squeak out. My breath starts hitching again.
“Hey.” His voice is low and easy. Like he’s trying to calm down a wounded animal. “Look at me.”
I drag my eyes off the doors and turn my head. He steps closer, slow enough I can track it, and sets his hands on my shoulders. Warm. Solid.
“Breathe with me,” he says. “In for four. Hold. Out for six.”
His thumbs rest just off my collarbones; his fingers curve easily around the tops of my arms. Heat spreads under his palms. I match his count. One… two… three… four. Hold. Out—two… three… four… five… six.
“Good,” he says, softer. “Again.”
I do it. The air goes in more easily. Out longer. His hands stay on me. I didn’t know how much I needed an anchor until now.
“That’s it,” he murmurs. “Again.”
I breathe. The urge to bolt eases because there’s nowhere to go. My shoulders drop a fraction under his palms. My throat isn’t so tight anymore.
“Better?” he asks.
“A little.” I hear my own voice and almost don’t recognize it. “Sorry. I… don’t like feeling trapped.”
“You’re not,” he says, and the certainty in it slides right into me. “This is a pause, not a trap.”
It’s a good line. I hang onto it. His hands are still on my shoulders. I’m aware of everything about them—the span, the heat, the way his right thumb almost, almost brushes my collarbone. I shouldn’t notice. I do.
He must realize he’s still holding me because he clears his throat and steps back.
My skin cools immediately.