Chapter 8
HARVEE
Walking into the office this morning takes everything I have.
Everyone is celebrating. Smiles, handshakes, someone's brought in a tray of pastries.
I fix an expression onto my face that approximates happiness and make it to my desk without saying anything I'll regret.
I just need to get through today. One day, then the weekend, then enough distance to figure out how to keep doing this job without losing something I won't be able to name until it's already gone.
I'm not naive enough to think this is the last time a winning case will feel like a loss. I just need to stay busy.
I glance to my left. The outgoing mail pile has reached architectural ambitions. Two hours until pickup, but killing time is the point. I gather the stack, stop by Donna's desk on the way out.
She peers up over her glasses, tucks a wave of brown hair behind her ear. "Can you grab me a smoothie from the café downstairs?"
"Of course."
I turn to go and catch myself smiling despite everything. Donna turned fifty last week. The streamers I'd hung to surprise her are still up, draped across the top of her monitor in festive defiance of time. Knowing Donna, they'll stay there until Christmas. Possibly longer.
I can't help it. I love going overboard for birthdays, even for people I barely know. Five minutes out of a day to make someone feel seen is never wasted. It's one of the few things I'm certain about.
The building wraps around an open courtyard, offices stacked above and the café sitting below like an afterthought. I take the stairs down to the mail room, a space barely larger than a closet, metal boxes lining every wall, a dented drop slot beside the door.
I shove the stack through and turn too fast.
I walk directly into something solid.
A hand catches my arm before I go down.
"Watch it." Not loud. Just sharp.
"I'm so sorry." Heat crawls up the back of my neck. "I didn't see you."
I look up. Mistake.
His eyes find mine and stay there. Dark brown, nearly black, but threaded through with flecks of gold that catch the light. Not warm exactly. Assessing. Like he's already arrived at a conclusion and is just confirming it.
He drags a hand through thick dark curls, pushing them back from his forehead, and I catch it underneath the faint trace of tobacco. Something sweeter. Vanilla, maybe.
My stomach does something it has no business doing.
Then he rolls his eyes, releases my arm, and jogs toward the café without another word.
I stand in the doorway of the mail room and watch him go.
Rude.
I exhale through my nose and follow at a reasonable distance, because I also need the café and I refuse to let a stranger with good bone structure reroute my morning.
The barista behind the counter looks barely old enough to be here.
"What can I get you?"
"A smoothie — whatever Donna usually gets — and a matcha latte."
While the blender runs and the milk steams I find myself thinking about the way he steadied me.
The automatic quality of it, the hand at my arm before I'd even registered I was falling.
The hard line of his jaw. The brief, absent pressure of his grip and the way he'd looked at me like I was a problem he'd already solved.
"Harvee."
I take the drinks. Head for the elevator.
The scent of tobacco and vanilla follows me all the way upstairs, and I don't entirely mind.