Chapter 7 #2
She turns without hesitation. “Chloe, would you mind showing Tom to the staff room. There’s a fridge there.”
Chloe stiffens. Just for a fraction of a second.
“I’m actually—” she starts, then stops herself. She turns instead to AJ. “Could you take him?”
AJ flashes her a cheeky grin. “I would,” he says with a wink, “but I’m on a call in about thirty seconds.”
He gestures vaguely towards a desk, where a phone is sitting.
“Of course you are,” Chloe says flatly.
AJ smiles, unapologetic. “Tragic timing.”
Marie-Louise is already moving on, mentally filing the moment as resolved. “Thank you, Chloe.”
“Yes sure. No problem," Chloe says, voice cool and perfectly professional. “This way.”
She turns without looking at me.
I follow, container in hand, plates tucked under my arm, acutely aware that this is no longer a public interaction. The newsroom noise fades behind us as we head back towards the lifts and into the staff room.
It’s empty.
I cross to the fridge and open it, the hum loud in the quiet. As I slide the container onto a shelf, I glance over my shoulder and catch her standing there, arms folded so tightly the tension practically creaks.
“Why are you here,” she says.
I straighten and close the fridge door. “The Tiramisu.”
She lets out a short, disbelieving laugh. “I did try it yesterday, if you remember.”
“I remember,” I say. “You tried a spoonful of something that had been assembled for approximately five seconds.”
I grin before I can stop myself.
“Don’t,” she says immediately. “Don’t grin. We agreed that never happened.”
“That never happened,” I repeat solemnly. “I’m here for entirely professional reasons.”
Her mouth opens. She hesitates, then tries again. “You don’t get to say that while looking at me like that.”
“Like what?”
“With those ridiculous eyes,” she snaps. “Just… don’t.”
“All right,” I say, then make a very deliberate show of turning my head to stare at the vending machine. I study it with exaggerated focus. “Is this better? I’m looking at crisps. Very respectfully.”
She snorts, then clamps a hand over her mouth.
“I repeat. This,” she says, pointing vaguely between us, “cannot happen again.”
“I know,” I say.
“Good.”
“Because we clearly don’t like each other,” I add.
She sighs. “Exactly.”
“Except,” I continue calmly, “for the one time we fucked.”
Silence drops between us, heavy and very aware of itself.
Chloe stares at me like she’s deciding whether to laugh or murder me with a plastic teaspoon.
“Right,” she says finally. “So that’s your analysis.”
“Yes.”
Her shoulders lower a fraction. Not relaxed. But less braced.
She exhales. “This was a mistake.”
“Yes,” I say again. “A thoroughly enjoyable one. Still a mistake.”
She closes her eyes for a moment, then opens them, all sharp edges back in place. “We reset. Professionally.”
“Professionally,” I agree.
Neither of us moves.
Neither of us looks entirely convinced.
“What if,” I say, carefully, “I want to argue again once the article’s out?”
Her eyes flick up to mine. Sharp. Knowing. No confusion there at all.
“That can’t happen,” she says at once. “Once it’s published, we’re done. Remember… cats and dogs.”
“That’s a shame,” I say.
She scoffs. “Is it?”
“Yes,” I admit. “Because I like arguing with you.”
Her jaw tightens, the way it did last night just before she stopped pretending she wasn’t enjoying herself.
“You really shouldn’t,” she says.
“I know,” I reply. “And yet.”
I step closer, slow enough that she has time to move away.
She doesn’t.
I lean in, my mouth just brushing the shell of her ear. Close enough that my words are only for her.
“And I like the fucking,” I add quietly.
Before she can respond, I nip her earlobe. Gentle. Teasing. A reminder rather than an invitation.
"You absolute menace,” she giggles.
I grin. I can’t help it.
“You are too good at this,” she says, voice low and seductive, “which is exactly why this cannot happen again.”
“I know,” I say.
She stares at me for a long second, like she’s weighing something dangerous. Then she turns, shuts the door firmly, and leans back against it.
I don’t think. I’m on her before sense can intervene.
Her hands fist in my shirt as I kiss her, hard and sure and completely unapologetic.
She kisses me back with the same ferocity, all teeth and heat and frustration, like this is an argument she intends to win.
The staff room disappears. There is only her mouth, the press of her body, the way she makes a small, involuntary sound when I deepen the kiss.
We don’t rush. We don’t need to. This isn’t about escalation. It’s about confirmation.
When she finally pulls away, she does it decisively, one hand flat on my chest, breath uneven, eyes bright with something that looks far too pleased with itself.
“I just needed to check,” she says, smoothing her hair like it’s a point of principle, “whether it really was that good last night.”
I raise an eyebrow. “And?”
She makes a thoughtful, maddeningly noncommittal sound. Somewhere between a hum and a shrug.
“Hm.”
I laugh quietly. “That’s not an answer.”
She opens the door, steps aside, and points very clearly towards the lift on the opposite wall.
“That,” she says, composed again in a way that feels suspiciously well practised, “is the exit.”
I take a step backwards, still watching her. “You know where to find me.”
“Yes,” she says. “Unfortunately, I do.”
The lift dings.
I give her one last look, then do the sensible thing for once and leave before either of us can make this worse.
The door closes behind me.
On the other side of it, I suspect she’s smiling.
Which is deeply unhelpful for everyone involved.