Chapter 14 - Mixed Signals #2
Bought by a man who had practically developed amnesia twelve hours earlier.
I took a sip.
Because apparently I had no principles.
The second incident happened Friday.
And this one was even stupider.
I was helping prepare a physical presentation model for a client review.
Not building the entire thing.
Just making a few last-minute adjustments because apparently architecture school had prepared me for a glamorous career involving tiny pieces of acrylic and the constant possibility of stabbing myself.
Adrian was beside me reviewing one of the model elevations.
"That's too high."
"It isn't."
"It is."
"You say that about everything."
"Because everything you do is apparently two millimeters too high."
"That sounds like a you problem."
"It becomes my problem when the client sees it."
I reached for the utility knife.
Adjusted one tiny edge.
And-
"Shit."
Adrian's head came up immediately.
"What happened?"
"Nothing."
I looked at my finger.
A thin red line appeared near the side of my index finger.
Great.
"You're bleeding."
"Technically."
"Let me see."
"Adrian, it's a paper cut."
"That's not a paper cut."
"Fine. An acrylic cut. Very prestigious."
"Give me your hand."
"I promise I will survive."
"Angelica."
There it was.
I looked at him.
He held out his hand.
I sighed dramatically and placed mine in it.
"You're incredibly dramatic."
His fingers closed carefully around mine.
"I'm dramatic?"
"Yes."
"You're the one narrating your survival."
"I've been through a lot."
"You have a two-millimeter cut."
"Three, minimum."
He looked at me.
"Hold still."
"I am holding still."
"You're talking."
"Those are different bodily functions."
His mouth moved.
Tiny.
There.
Then he looked back at my finger.
He didn't let go.
That was the first thing I noticed.
He could have.
He could've pointed toward the first-aid kit.
Could've told me to deal with it.
Could've gone back to the model.
Instead, Adrian Vale walked toward the cabinet with my hand still in his.
Which meant I followed.
Because apparently I belonged to my hand and my hand currently belonged to Adrian.
"This seems excessive."
"Then stop bleeding."
"Oh, excellent medical advice."
He opened the first-aid kit.
Took out an antiseptic wipe.
His palm stayed beneath my hand.
My hand looked ridiculously small in his.
I'd noticed his hands before.
Unfortunately.
Large palms.
Long fingers.
Strong.
But there was something entirely different about watching those hands handle mine like I was made of something considerably more fragile than I actually was.
He opened the wipe.
"This might sting."
"I'll be brave."
He touched it to the cut.
I flinched.
His eyes came up immediately.
"Did that hurt?"
"No. I just enjoy recreational flinching."
"Angelica."
"A little."
His grip changed.
Softer.
Oh.
That was-
No.
He cleaned the cut carefully.
Far more carefully than necessary.
I watched his face.
His brows were slightly drawn together.
Complete concentration.
Over my microscopic injury.
"You know," I said, "for someone who supposedly hates everyone, you're taking this very seriously."
"Hold still."
"I am."
"You're moving."
"I'm breathing again. Apparently that's a recurring problem around you."
His eyes flicked to mine.
Oh.
Why had I said that?
I smiled innocently.
He looked back down.
I watched him unwrap a Band-Aid.
"I'm starting to think you've been falsely advertising yourself."
"About?"
"The whole terrifying CEO thing."
"I am putting a Band-Aid on your finger."
"Exactly."
He wrapped it carefully around the cut.
"Practically a declaration of affection."
His fingers stopped.
Oh.
I had been joking.
Obviously.
But Adrian went completely still.
His eyes lifted.
Met mine.
And there it was again.
That change.
That strange, immediate disappearance of whatever softness had been there.
His fingers released mine.
"You're done."
I looked at my finger.
Then at him.
"Beautiful work."
"Try not to injure yourself again."
"I'll do my best, Doctor Vale."
Nothing.
Not even the almost-mouth-twitch.
I frowned.
He closed the first-aid kit.
"Anything else?"
There it was.
Again.
I stared at him for a second.
"No."
"Good."
He went back toward the model.
I stood there.
Trying to understand what had just changed.
Again.
Ten minutes later, I found him in his office.
Because apparently I enjoyed suffering.
I had a legitimate question.
A completely legitimate, completely professional question.
I stood at his door.
"Which finish do you want for the west lobby transition?"
"The options are in the material schedule."
"I know."
He kept looking at his screen.
"Then use the schedule."
"I am. There are two approved options. I'm asking which one you prefer."
"Use your judgment."
I blinked.
"Okay."
Silence.
I waited.
His eyes finally lifted.
"Was there something else?"
Wow.
"No."
"Then I have work to do."
That one landed.
Not hard.
But enough.
Enough that I suddenly felt stupid standing there.
"Right."
I nodded.
"Sorry I bothered you."
I turned.
"Ms. Stone."
I stopped.
For half a second, I waited.
I didn't know what I expected.
He said nothing.
I looked back.
His expression had changed slightly.
But whatever he'd been about to say-
he didn't.
"Never mind."
Of course.
I walked out.
I didn't talk to him again unless I had to.
Not because I was hurt.
I wasn't.
I was irritated.
There was a difference.
A very important difference.
I went to lunch with Maya and Ben.
I argued with Daniel about whether his music was objectively terrible.
I spent fifteen minutes helping Nicole find a reference detail she'd lost.
I answered three emails.
I laughed.
I worked.
I did not think about Adrian Vale.
At three twenty-two, I returned from the printer.
There was a coffee on my desk.
I stopped.
Just-
stopped.
I looked at it.
Then across the office.
Adrian's door was open.
He was at his desk.
Working.
I stared at him.
As if he felt it, he looked up.
Our eyes met through the glass.
I looked at the coffee.
Then back at him.
He held my gaze for one second.
Two.
Then looked back at his computer.
I stood there, completely unable to understand him.
That evening, I sat on my couch with my legs tucked underneath me and tried to understand Adrian Vale.
This was my first mistake.
Understanding Adrian required information.
I had none.
What I had instead was evidence.
Conflicting, irritating, completely useless evidence.
There had been a time when the explanation was easy.
He hated me.
Everyone thought so.
I thought so.
Adrian Vale had made disliking me look almost like a full-time job.
Except-
he didn't hate me.
I knew that now.
I wasn't sure exactly when I'd stopped believing it.
Maybe it was the coffee.
Maybe it was the late nights.
Maybe it was the way he'd noticed something was wrong with me before I'd said a word.
Maybe it was the fact that when I'd physically pulled away from him, he'd noticed and immediately given me space.
Maybe it was cheerful fucking carrots.
But people didn't hate you like this.
They didn't remember your coffee.
They didn't notice when you were tired.
They didn't ask whether you'd eaten.
They didn't hold your hand over a tiny cut like losing one drop of blood was somehow unacceptable.
And they definitely didn't keep buying you coffee after acting like speaking to you was an inconvenience.
I dropped my head against the back of the couch.
So he cared.
Fine.
Somehow, in whatever emotionally constipated way Adrian Vale was capable of caring-
he cared.
That should have made things easier.
It didn't.
Because there was another pattern now.
One I couldn't stop seeing.
Every time something happened between us-
something soft,
something personal,
something that made the distance between Adrian Vale and me feel a little smaller-
he changed.
My hair tangled in his shirt.
His fingers holding it.
My hand against his chest.
Five minutes later-
Can we focus on the work?
My finger.
His hand around mine.
The ridiculous concentration on his face while he put a Band-Aid on me.
Practically a declaration of affection.
And then-
nothing.
Cold.
Formal.
Ms. Stone.
I have work to do.
Like someone flipped a switch.
Like he suddenly remembered something.
Then-
coffee.
I stared at the ceiling.
There were two possibilities.
Possibility one:
Adrian Vale liked me.
I sat very still.
No.
Absolutely not.
Possibility two:
Adrian Vale did not like me.
Much safer.
Except-
I frowned.
That didn't make any sense either.
Because if he didn't like me, why did he keep doing things that felt like he did?
And if he did like me-
why did he keep doing things that made me feel stupid for thinking it?
I covered my face with both hands.
"Oh God."
This man was going to drive me insane.
Maybe that was his plan.
Maybe he didn't hate me.
Maybe he didn't like me.
Maybe Adrian Vale had simply identified me as psychologically stable and taken that as a personal challenge.
That explanation was beginning to feel the most plausible.
Because I could understand hate.
I could understand indifference.
I could probably even understand attraction.
What I couldn't understand was this.
Come closer.
Go away.
Angelica.
Ms. Stone.
Coffee.
Coldness.
Care.
Wall.
Again.
And again.
And again.
I lowered my hands.
There was one question I couldn't get rid of anymore.
Did Adrian Vale actually like me?
Or did he hate me?
Because somehow-
I was starting to believe the answer might be both.