9. Chapter 9
Knowing full and well that I was running from my problems, I skipped my morning swim, opting to pick up kolaches for the team instead. I’d have to talk to Beck at some point, but it wouldn’t be in the frigid lanes of Power Gym clad in a swimsuit. That much I knew.
Because I’m apparently shameless, I also ran a little late to our team meeting. Just enough that I interrupted Wesley’s weekly reminder to update our time sheets with my kolaches. No one seemed upset by the disturbance. No one except Beck.
Ted reached for the lone jalapeno kolache, but I yanked the box back. “Come on, Ted,” I said as Anna snatched the kolache. “You know preggos get first dibs.”
She gave me a knowing look. She recognized my breakfast offering as stalling because I’d called her last night while in the fetal position on my couch, staring at my finished forty tiles, which meant I still had one hundred and eight place cards to go, and I hadn’t even cracked open a single email for work.
I told her everything. When I got to the part about Beck being in the lobby, she said, “How did you not know he is an Atteridge? It’s all anyone ever talks about in the breakroom.”
To which I had practically screeched, “When do you ever see me taking a break, Anna?”
She conceded and allowed me to finish my story without further interruptions. When my word vomit finally concluded, I’d expected the scolding of a lifetime. Instead, she’d clapped—an actual applause, commenting about how surprised and impressed she was. When I told her I was going to have to give up the job, she’d told me, and I quote, “You’d better not bitch out, Emily. This is your chance.”
I’d made no promises but told her I’d take her vote into consideration.
Then she’d told me not to worry about Beck—that she was ninety percent sure he had a thing for me, and if he hadn’t ratted me out yet, he wouldn’t.
Looking at him now, I wasn’t so sure.
He glowered at me from his chair as I made my way around the table with the box, but I just smiled. Beck couldn’t very well pull the Spanish Inquisition on me when we had witnesses. He’d have to play nice for a little while, at least.
I took the only empty seat. The one next to Beck. “Hungry?” I asked, opening the box toward him while Wesley continued prattling on about the importance of documenting our time.
Beck gave me a long, inscrutable look, then shook his head. “Maybe after the meeting,” he whispered, an eyebrow cocked.
Damn it. He wasn’t going to let this explanation thing go.
I pretended to be pensive. “Hmmm. I don’t know if they will be available then,” I whispered back.
“Emily, did you have something to add?” Wesley asked, calling me out like a student who’d interrupted his lesson.
I shook my head and feigned being very interested in taking notes.
Unfortunately, Beck was interested in taking notes as well. He passed me his notebook, a question at the top. And now I was getting some major high school flashbacks.
Are you even a real calligrapher?
I wondered how best to tackle this situation, which was Beckett Atteridge. I could take the high road: apologize, be upfront, let him know I planned on backing out of the job anyway. Then I thought about Hailey, the woman I’d decided to try to be more like. She wouldn’t take the high road. She’d be a smartass about it. I decided her way sounded a little more fun.
What do you mean by real? I lettered back, using the prettiest faux calligraphy I could manage with the felt-tipped pens I had on hand. Then, I added some curly leaves, delicate berries, and a blooming flower. As Wesley turned around to point to the projected Excel sheet, I thrust the notebook back at Beck and capped my pen with a little smirk.
He appraised my lettering. Then, he scrawled his response below mine before placing the notebook back in front of me just as Wesley looked at Ted, answering a question about an upcoming deadline.
So why are you lying to Victoria about your name?
Are we really doing this?I thought. Here? On notebook paper? Fine.
Why are you sitting in this boring ass meeting when you could have a corner spot in Daddy’s office?
As soon as I plopped the notebook under Beck’s nose, I realized I’d made a grievous error. Partly because I’d gone too far with the wording of my question but mostly because I hadn’t checked to see what Wesley was doing when I’d passed the notebook.
And he looked right at us.
No. Not us. Me. Because Wesley wouldn’t call out the poster child of the team, now, would he?
Fuck.
“What’s going on over there?” Wesley asked, trying to keep a playful tone, but the annoyance sprang through like weeds between sidewalk cracks. “Care to share with the group?”
My mouth fell open. I tried to form an explanation, but all I could think about were the incriminating words I’d written, specifically how I’d described Wesley’s meeting. I waited for Beck to stand up and proudly read from his notebook, effectively dismantling my career.
Instead, he surprised me with his calm and cool reply. “I was just confirming with Emily that the deadline you had for the workflow is on the 29th.” He gave an apologetic smile. “Sorry, I didn’t want to interrupt the meeting to ask.”
The answer he paved was so smooth. It left no reason for anyone to question further. Wesley went back to the meeting, and I should have paid attention. Instead, I kept thinking how Beck would have had no problem pulling off this double-life thing that I struggled with.
To my relief, Beck didn’t try to pass any more notes during the meeting. Unfortunately, as soon as it concluded, he followed my pace packing up, matching the closing of my laptop, the capping of my pen, and the stacking of notebooks and papers. It was like the office version of synchronized swimming.
Everything was tit for tat, even our exit into the hall.
“Do you have a minute?” Beck asked, still matching each of my steps.
“Nope. I have a meeting with finance in five.”
“I was being polite by asking. You forget I have access to your Outlook calendar, Hailey.”
“Keep your voice down,” I said between my teeth, then forced a smile at Susan as she shuffled past us to get to her cube.
Beck huffed out a breath, then grabbed my elbow, once again—I noted—this time steering me toward a half-empty office. Someone from management was moving up a floor. Lucky them. Unlucky me. The door shut behind us, leaving me alone in a room with Beck, a filing cabinet, and three columns of boxes. Said filing cabinet and cardboard Jenga towers blocked access to the rest of the room, serving to cage Beck and me together. He may as well have pulled me into a supply closet.
“I won’t take up much of your time,” he said, placing his laptop and notebook onto the filing cabinet. The movement reminded me of when the earrings come off before a catfight.
Wanting to free my own hands, I put my things onto the lowest—therefore the least risky—stack of boxes. Only once my hands were free, I didn’t even know what to do with them. I tried sticking them in my pockets and then remembered. Oh yeah, I’m a woman. And therefore, pockets on slacks are a luxury I do not have. I ended up crossing my arms over my chest.
He slipped his hands into the pockets he actually had—point one for Beck and men everywhere. “What is going on?”
In the heavy silence, I tried to start the speech I had prepared for this occasion. I had an apology ready. And then I planned on assuring him that he didn’t need to worry his pretty little head about it any longer because I would be stepping down from the job—passing the torch to the next lucky calligrapher. But there was a hardness to his eyes that made me pause.
His shoulders and eyebrows lifted as if to say well, out with it. “Is this some sort of elaborate scam?”
Scam?
The word sent a jolt like ice water to my veins. Because scams were serious. Scams ended up on the news with the authorities involved.
An apology and stepping aside felt like an admission to guilt. And yes, I’d lied about my first name and pretended to be my sister, but it was nothing malicious, not to the caliber Beck had imagined based on how he’d cornered me in this abandoned office.
Just as quickly as the fear arrived, anger ate it alive. “Do you seriously think I spend my free time scamming people, Beckett? Full-time business analyst. Part-time villain?”
“I don’t know, Lane. I wouldn’t have thought that was your M.O. But it’s pretty weird that you are introducing yourself as someone else.”
“It’s just a first name, Beck. Ask her for the calligrapher’s last name. It’s still Lane.”
“So, when she sends the money—it goes to your account?” I paused, and it was just enough to convince him he was onto something. “Are you the person she hired?”
I stood there, frozen. I considered lying, but these were direct questions. A misstep and I’d get caught in the web I’d spun. But more than that, his eyes lasered onto mine. He would see the lie as soon as I uttered it.
He took a step closer. “Why are you pretending to be someone else?” His deep voice hummed along my bones and seeped into my veins.
To my credit, I didn’t back down from his intimidation tactic. Instead, I took my own step, shrinking the distance between us. “You are trying to protect your sister,” I said, matching his almost-whisper, “and I’m trying to protect mine.”
His eyebrows furrowed at that. “What do you mean?”
The truth will set you free, but it might also shoot you in the back and bury you in a shallow lot next to your ancestors. I proceeded with caution, not sure which way the wind would blow just yet.
“My sister, Hailey, owns Lettering Lane. She started this wedding but for . . .” I thought about her ditching Victoria’s wedding to spend her days tanning in a string bikini with Florida Man and landed on “. . . personal reasons, I’m stepping in to help your sister with her big day and save my sister’s business from tanking. This way, no one loses.”
“And you feel qualified to do this? Are you as good as your sister?”
The question made me pause because I could letter in my sleep. I’d done favorite song lyrics on brass plates and simple messages on teacups. I’d personalized headbands for the entire running club during high school. I’d addressed all the graduation invites for my family. And the gifting over the years: personalizing shoe boxes, perfume bottles, supply boxes—you name it. There was no guesswork to my style.
I had more experience than Hailey—twelve years’ worth.
“No,” I answered. “I’m better.”
He appraised me. And under his gaze, my insides turned runny. He was handsome. There was no getting around it. I wish the enemy-asshole side of him canceled out the good-looking side, but no. My damn hormones were going wild at how close we stood—so close I could feel his breath on my temple, could get high off that fresh soapy scent of his, could notice the way his Adam’s apple bobbed past that lone freckle on his throat.
“So,” I said a little too breathily, in desperate need of conversation to keep from floating away on balloons inflated with pheromones. “Are you going to rat me out to your sister?”
“That depends,” he answered, reaching past me to get to the door. Just that one movement, where he had to lean further into my space, made the air thin out in the room.
“Depends on what?” I asked a little dreamily while he reached for his things on the filing cabinet.
“On how you do with the mirror this weekend?” he said, stepping past me to get into the hall.
The lack of his breath and his scent and his proximity cleared the haze I’d been in, allowing me to finish the conversation like a normal functioning human and not a Pepe le Pew floating toward Penelope.
“What are you talking about?”
“The mirror that you are writing the seating chart on,” he replied, annoyed. Like, if I’d been Victoria’s real calligrapher, I’d have known immediately what he was referring to.
“No. Yes.” I shook my head and put out my hands with a frustrated sigh. “I know about the mirror.”
“Good, because I told Victoria I’d drop it off at your place.” My eyes widened, but he kept going. “You know, since we’re old friends.” He made a show of looking around to make sure no one else occupied the hall. “Sorry,” he mock whispered, “Since Hailey and I are old friends.”
“Wait—” I started because, damn it, I wasn’t supposed to be taking on more of this job. I was supposed to quit. I was going to quit.
“I have to go,” he said. “I actually do have a meeting in five minutes.” He stopped at the end of the hall to add, “But I’m sure we’ll have plenty of time to talk on Saturday, Lane.”