Page 15 of Off the Record

five

I’ve never been muchof a nail-biter, but when six o’clock rolls around and I’m sitting on an email with two finished articles about extremely micro people, I can’t help but chew on my thumbnail. The office is mostly empty, the remaining stragglers packing their things and powering off computers. If I don’t send it now, Hudson might consider it late. If I send it, he might think me crazy and fire me on the spot.

What choice do I have? I hit the send button and immediately start packing my things.

“I have your scarf in my car,” Andrea says, coming up and sitting on the edge of my desk. Why is she still here? She must notice my confusion, because she explains, “From when we went to lunch the other day. Want to walk me out and get it now?”

“Sure, thanks.” I slide my bag over my shoulder and look at Hudson’s office. The blinds are up. He’s still sitting at his desk, the blue light from the computer screen making his face glow. If he’s reading my articles now, I want to be very far from this place.

“It’s kinda sad how much he works, isn’t it?” Andrea asks, following my attention. “His whole situation makes me feel for him.”

“What situation?” I ask, before I can think better of it.

Andrea glances behind us where Simone is watching and doesn’t say anything more.

“Drinks tonight?” Simone asks, pulling her bag over her arm. “Whiskey Sage?”

“Sure. Text me the details.” We can either toast to my skating by or mourn my utter destruction, depending on which way these articles go.

Simone gives Andrea a strained smile. “You’re welcome to join us.”

“Thanks. Maybe I will.” Andrea turns to walk out.

“She has my scarf. I’ll see you later.”

Simone rolls her eyes, and I hurry to follow Andrea. When we reach the elevator, she’s got her phone open, scrolling Instagram. I want her to keep telling me about Hudson, but don’t want to sound too interested. By the time we reach the parking garage, my self-control flees completely. “What were you saying about Mr. Owens?”

She gives me a cat-like smile. “Well, he has no friends.”

“He dates a new girl, like, every week.” Yes, I might have started browsing the photos he’s tagged in on social media when I should be writing. Those pictures go back for ages.

“Right, but he has nofriends,” Andrea says.

“How do you know this?”

“I’m the assistant. I have access to his calendar. It’s sadly lacking.”

“Maybe he just doesn’t give us access to that information.”

“His private and work calendars are connected so I can avoid making appointments that conflict with his schedule,” she tells me. “Trust me, the man has no life.”

Which tracks, doesn’t it? How many times this week have we texted late at night or right after work or before we reached the office, bouncing ideas back and forth? I had his attention way more than I should the last few days. It almost feels likewe’rebecoming friends, but I’m not deluding myself. Our relationship is strictly professional.

“That’s sad,” I say.

“Seriously. I’d invite him to meet us at the bar, but I’m not sure I’m even invited.”

I have nothing to say to this. The weird rivalry between Simone and Andrea is their thing, and I’m staying out of it. We reach her car and she gets my scarf from the front seat.

“I hope I’ll see you tonight,” I say, taking it from her.

“Maybe.” She gives a noncommittal shrug.

“Okay. Well—” My phone rings, cutting me off. I fish it from my pocket.Hudson. “I’ll text you details when I have them,” I say to Andrea.

“Bye, Paisley.” She gets in her car.

I answer the call quickly so I don’t miss it. “Hello?” I say, putting the phone to my ear, pulse thundering.

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