7. fire vs. flame
CHAPTER 7
FIRE VS. FLAME
EMMA
A s the turnstile flashes green, I step through the open bi-fold gates, then stride across the polished marble floor toward the bank of elevators.
By the time I spot the traitorous head of brown hair, it’s already too late to hide.
Charlie steps onto the elevator, and I pray it closes before I reach it, but why would I get lucky now? His eyes meet mine as soon as he turns around, and he smiles as he throws an arm out to hold the doors.
“Don’t,” I grumble, tightening my hands into fists. “Don’t you dare hold the elevator for me, Charlie.”
I’m not sure I can survive standing close to him again.
“Better hurry up, Emma,” he sings out, and the butterflies in my stomach take flight.
Two weeks in and I’m still not used to him.
I huff. Debate it. Hate him a little more.
The doors chime a warning.
I shoot him a glare as I step in. Not that Charlie cares. He looks happier and more attractive than ever, leaning back against the rail, ankles crossed, a cobalt cashmere sweater making his eyes sing brightly as they lay into me.
What I’d give to wipe that smirk right off his face.
Bad luck used to be sold-out shows and parking tickets and not finding the shoes I love in my size.
Now it’s two little words, dripping with sarcasm and a twang I cannot escape, even in my dreams.
“Morning, sunshine.”
I say nothing, keeping my eyes fixed on the number panel.
He hums. It’s a deep rumble. “Not a morning person?”
“I’m not talking to you.”
Even his laugh is smug: rich and loud and confident. “Could’ve fooled me.”
It takes willpower, but I won’t look at him. Even though I can feel the heat of his gaze on my skin as sure as if he were touching me.
It’s been two torturous weeks of Charlie Walker and that damn smile sitting opposite me.
There used to be a buffer of eight floors between us.
I miss that buffer.
“Good morning,” I say, sounding anything but good.
“Did you wake up on the wrong side of the bed again? I know a few tricks for that.”
I finally give in to temptation, and dammit, he looks good.
Do they still give keys to the city as rewards for community contributions? Because whoever tailored Charlie’s pants deserves one. Or an honorary knighthood.
If a petition is needed, I have no doubt that everyone in this building would sign it.
“I’m shocked anyone sticks around that long.” The instant the words are out, I want to take them back. I shouldn’t even be thinking about his love life. It’s none of my business. But it shuts him up.
I stare at the elevator doors, my stomach churning with guilt.
Now that I’ve seen him interact with other people, I understand exactly what Ivy was talking about. The man is so charming, I doubt he needs any help warming his bed. Hell, knowing my luck, he secretly has a heart of gold and saves puppies in his spare time.
Yeah, and I’m the next queen of Atlantis.
Subject: RE: Document group terminology
Emma, I’ve reviewed the wording you sent through. I’m disappointed. The goal of simplifying the process appears to mean “remove all boundaries,” and while I’m sure Engineering will be pleased that Controlled Documents are relatively unscathed, there seems to be a large disconnect where highly sensitive contractual information exists. I would have expected you to understand this, but perhaps we need to get everyone in a room to realign expectations.
The response from the Procurements lead is damning and, frankly, confusing. If he’d read the procedure, he would have seen the detailed note I left in the second paragraph, outlining how contractual information is universally considered as a confidential class document, and thus, is the sole exception to the managed rule.
So why does his email—with Roberts cc’d in, because why not make this worse?—sound like I threatened to take his firstborn son?
Five years in, and it still shocks me how often women in this field receive emails like this.
We don’t get grace for errors. We don’t get friendly reminders. We get ignored, talked over, debated, corrected, explained to. Managed.
Returning to my original email, I open the link to the document and immediately see the problem.
That very important paragraph I wrote is gone.
One guess who is responsible.
Speaking of evil, Charlie’s voice catches my attention from outside of Roberts’s office. Look at them, chatting away, all buddy-buddy. Whatever Charlie is saying, Roberts is pleased. The man is smiling. I didn’t even know his face could do that.
It’s been less than a month, and he’s already got Roberts eating out of the palm of his hand.
I hate how Charlie has no trouble being heard. I hate how easy it is for him to be respected. If he sits quietly in a meeting, he’s assessing and thoughtful.
If I do it, I’m not paying attention.
“Speak up more” are three words I never want to hear again. It’s the “you’d be pretty if you smiled” of the corporate world. I want to rage quit every time it’s uttered.
But speaking up is a gamble. If I could say the right thing, that unknowable correct answer, I’d be golden, like Mr. Walker over there. Free entry into the club. Pass GO. Collect two hundred dollars.
But say the wrong thing, and suddenly I’m too opinionated, too emotional.
My ire only increases when I view the document’s edit history and find the last person who accessed it and made changes is none other than Roberts.
I bite down on the scream building inside me.
The audacity of men might be the only thing more endless than the known universe. Larger than we can fathom, always expanding, and guaranteed to eventually decimate all forms of life.
They end their conversation by Charlie’s desk, and Roberts turns to me. By the way he instantly sobers, I know he’s read the email.
“Emma. I hope you’ll be clearing up that misunderstanding with Procurement today.”
Shame washes over me, and I swallow past the tightness in my throat. “Yes, sir.”
Oh, I’ll be clearing it up. And then I’ll be locking my document down.
All I want is to do my job, without interference.
Of course that would rely on Charlie abiding by the rules.
“You talked to legal without me?” I ask two hours later, after my meeting invite comes back declined with a curt “this has already been discussed.”
Charlie only shrugs. “You told me to take on retention, and it led me to legal. I’m just doing as I’m told.”
Like hell he is.
I’m starting to think he enjoys getting under my skin.
No matter. Charlie might be good, but I’m better.
“Fine. Since you’re already working with them, you can take over the security labels, but I’m taking back metadata requirements.”
He raises a brow. “You better not cut projects out of the loop on that one.”
I sigh. I had really hoped I wouldn’t have to talk with them, but he’s right.
“I can handle projects,” I say, and I’m only half lying.
I had hoped that in a building this big, I’d have no problem avoiding the one person I don’t want to see.
So, imagine my surprise when I arrive at my next meeting to find Charlie perched happily beside the Project lead, Samir.
“Emma, it’s good to finally meet you.” He stands and holds out a hand. “I hope you don’t mind that I invited Charlie to sit in. He knows our requirements backward and forward.”
“Of course,” I lie, sliding my hand into his. “The more the merrier.”
Across the table, Charlie winks.