Page 33 of Misfortune and Mr. Right

Nope.

Not this time.

I meant what I said. This time, he’s going down.

I turn away from his smirky face and those deceptively captivating eyes and casually walk toward the door leading into the hallway from the common workspace. I’m not marching away—well, on the inside I am. But on the outside, I’m a confident woman, intentionally on her way … somewhere else.

Logan calls my name from behind me, but I pretend I have noise-cancelling AirPods in my ears. La-la-la … I can’t hear your baritone voice calling out my name as if we’re colleagues and you need me to turn around and collaborate.

I know better. As soon as I capitulate and let my guard down, Logan will walk away with everything, leaving me in the dust, forgotten and overlooked. I don’t need to be first. I do need to not lose—to him—ever again.

I step into the hallway and look around. I don’t know where I’m going. I simply need to get away from Logan and the way his presence quietly fills a room, drawing all eyes to himself without a drop of effort.

There’s a supply closet straight across from me where we keep toner, reams of paper, and other office supplies. I dash inside without a second thought, pulling my phone out of my pocket and clicking Lynette’s number as I go. The door closes behind me with a satisfying snick. I’m separated and secluded from Logan for now. I breathe my first full breath since Darwin pulled Logan aside.

My phone rings on the other end—and rings. I pull my cell away from my ear. What time is it anyway? 11:15 a.m. Gah. Lynette’s still in class, her phone on silent. She should be going to lunch in fifteen minutes. I can wait. I’ll just call Megan. I dial her number, and she picks up immediately.

“Hey, Olivia! What’s up?”

I lower my voice for some reason, even though I’m tucked away in this closet. It’s dark in here, the only light coming from the crack under the door. Edges of shelving and supplies blur in the darkness. Through the shadows I can barely tell one object from another. I make my way to a large box near the wall and sit down. It sags a little but holds up after the initial dip.

“Logan. Logan freaking Alexander. That’s what’s up. We’ve been assigned to the same project.”

I vent to Megan, explaining how Darwin pulled Logan aside and how I warned Logan that he’s going down.

“I mean it, Megs. I’m not going to lose to him again.”

“Of course you’re not. But Olivia?”

“What?” My voice echoes through the closet. I’m no longer being quiet.

“Isn’t your specialty in one area of content development and his in another?”

“Yeah.”

“So, this isn’t really a contest, is it?”

“That’s a minor technicality. With Logan, somehow everything turns into a contest. And he ends up shining, and I end up looking like a shadow of whatever he is.”

I sound desperate, even to my own ears.

“I know. I know.” Megan’s voice is mostly consoling, an ounce of patronizing just under the surface. “You’re experiencing a classic trauma response.”

“Exactly!” I shout. “I’ve been traumatized!”

“Olivia?” That distinctive baritone calls my name through the door.

“No,” I answer like a fool.

“No, what?” Megan asks me.

“I’m talking to the door, not you.”

“You’re talking to a door? This is worse than I thought.”

Logan continues to call my name. “Olivia? What are you doing in the supply closet?”

I ignore him, hoping he’ll think he imagined my response. I lower my voice to a whisper. “Megan, I’m in the supply closet.”

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