Page 19 of Bar Down

For the next hour, they worked in surprising harmony, her narrative expertise complementing his analytical approach. Stephanie found herself leaning closer than necessary to view his monitor, hyperaware of the heat radiating from his body. Several times their fingers brushed as they both reached for the same document, each touch sending sparks across her skin.

"This isn't just about numbers for you, is it?" she asked during a brief break, finding herself genuinely impressed by the complexity of his models, which incorporated factors she'd never expected him to value—emotional resonance, community trust indicators, player satisfaction metrics.

Marcus adjusted his glasses, drawing her attention to his eyes—dark, intelligent, and currently fixed on her with an intensity that made her breath catch.

"Numbers are tools, not ends in themselves. They describe reality; they don't define it."

"That's... surprisingly philosophical."

"Is it surprising because it's philosophical, or because it came from me?"

The question was direct but not accusatory. Stephanie considered it honestly, aware that she was seeing new dimensions to him tonight—dimensions that were becoming harder to ignore.

"Both, I suppose," she admitted. "I've misjudged you."

"As I've misjudged you." He set aside his tablet and turned to face her fully, his knee now definitely touching hers under the table. "Your opposition to analytics—it's not about the data itself, is it? It's about how it's been weaponized."

The observation was too close to her experience with Preston Reed. Stephanie felt her defenses rising automatically, her expression closing off.

"We should focus on the presentation," she said, reaching for her notes.

Marcus didn't press, but she felt his eyes on her—not in the cold, calculating way she'd once assumed he approached everything, but with genuine interest. Maybe even concern. The weight of his gaze was like a physical touch.

"I apologize," he said after a moment. "That was presumptive."

The unexpected apology disarmed her. When was the last time a male colleague had simply acknowledged overstepping without demanding explanation or justification? The rarity of it made her look at him—really look at him—and the intensity of his gaze nearly stole her breath.

"It's fine," she said, softer than intended. "You're not entirely wrong."

He nodded, accepting this partial confirmation without pushing for more. Another surprise. She found herself studying the strong line of his jaw, the fullness of his lower lip, wondering absurdly what it might feel like against her own.

They returned to work, the rhythm of their collaboration smoother now, punctuated by occasional insights and moments of levity. Stephanie relaxed in his company, the defensive posture she maintained with most colleagues gradually easing. Their chairs had somehow migrated closer, their shoulders occasionally brushing as they worked.

When her phone buzzed with a text, she almost ignored it, reluctant to break this unexpected connection. But a PR director was never truly off-duty.

The message preview made her blood run cold.

Reed: Dinner tomorrow? We should discuss your future with the organization. Darby values loyalty in his team.

Her hand trembled slightly as she turned the phone face-down on the table, hoping Marcus hadn't noticed. But of course he had—those observant eyes missed nothing.

"Bad news?" he asked, his tone carefully neutral.

"Just work." The lie felt bitter on her tongue, especially after the honest exchange they'd been building. But some walls were necessary for survival.

Marcus studied her for a moment, then did something entirely unexpected. He reached out and covered her hand with his—the gesture gentle but deliberate, his palm warm against her skin, fingers curling slightly around hers.

"Whatever it is," he said quietly, "you don't have to manage it alone. That's what alliances are for."

The simple offer of support—without demands for explanation, without qualification—cracked something in Stephanie's carefully maintained composure. For a dangerous moment, she considered telling him everything: about Reed, about Boston, about why she guarded her professional reputation so fiercely.

Instead, she took a steadying breath, acutely aware that she hadn't pulled her hand away from his. "Thank you. But some battles need to be fought solo."

"Statistically speaking, that's rarely true."

A reluctant smile tugged at her lips. "There's the Spreadsheets I know."

His expression remained serious, but his thumb traced a small, maddening circle on the back of her hand. "My point stands. Teams outperform individuals in virtually every metric."

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