Page 13 of Mistlefoe
I duck my head and fix my eyes on aSPORTYmagazine in my hands. This has been going on all morning. Earlier, I fixated on his eyebrows. I wish I could say they’re ugly and make him look like a creepy clown but… no. They’re strong, dark, and with a slant that make him look intense when he’s serious even though he rarely is.
This all started yesterday when he returned from taking his grandpa to the dentist. Like, just learning that he has a non evil side softened me. I really wish I could keep the bonus money and get the promotion without working with him, because I’m starting to suspect that Rachel is right. My grudge might be in a bit of danger here.
“I thought you weren’t going to work until late last night.”
It takes me a moment for his words to register. “What do you mean?”
“Clearly, you put a shit ton of work into this presentation.” He lifts his attention from the screen and cocks an eyebrow. “Almost as if you wanted to lookrealgood in front of our boss.”
Oops. I got caught.
I deflect by saying, “I’m just taking this very seriously.”
“Sure…” He elongates the word to an obnoxious degree. “But anyway, Richard’s gonna love it. You did great.”
“Are you being sarcastic?” I frown.
“What? No. I mean it.” Conor cocks his head as if confused.
“Oh.” I squirm and readjust the skirt of my cable knit sweater dress. For the first time, I want to offer an olive branch. “Any, uh—any suggestions for improvement?”
He hums. “I could offer a few but there’s barely any time left for changes. Let’s just roll with it.”
I gnash my teeth, immediately regretting the olive branch. He hasa few?But won’t even bother? I bet he’s going to yeetthem at Richard right in my face to make me look like an incompetent fool.
“Fine.” I snap the word so hard that even Rachel, sitting in a Zoom call next to me, turns to give me a look like something’s wrong with me. “I—I have to go make a call. See you in Richard’s office.”
“Okay…”
I jump to my feet and when I’m five paces away, I remember that I didn’t grab my phone. I look everywhere but at Conor or Rachel as I return to grab it. But I don’t have to call jack squat. I lock myself up in the women’s bathroom to wash my face, hoping the cold water helps me get over myself.
*
Twenty minutes later, I feel slightly less like a shitty human being while I sit with Conor in Richard’s office. We’re on the same side of the conference table at the front of the office, sitting in perfect silence as we wait for our boss to return from a bio break.
My laptop is hooked up to the screen on the wall, showing the first slide of the presentation and of course I’m doubting everything. I thought I was being clever and cheeky when I put one snowman holding a glass of eggnog on one side, another snowman on the other with a baseball, and some mistletoe above them. Now, looking at it while seconds away from starting the meeting, I feel like a little kid who drew her fever dream with Crayons.
I wish someone would tell me that my ideas aren’t childish—and for a second I contemplate asking Conor for more validation. Except that he’d immediately whiff my insecurities.
Best I keep pretending I’m the second Camila Puig, the company’s top female manager who has been dubbed as the Ice Queen.
Rustling catches my attention and I turn to Conor. He’s rolling up the sleeves of his grey flannel shirt and I get a heart attack.
His arms are a weapon of mass destruction that needs to be regulated. It should be obvious by the healthy beard but I’m surprised to see his arm hair from up close. Muscles bunch as he turns his arm one way or the other to fix up his shirt. But the worst part is the veins running under his skin toward his big hands. I am weak.
Of course, that’s when Richard waltzes in.
“All right, what do we have here?” He pulls up the chair right across from me and turns to the screen.
I freeze, my brain turned into complete mush incapable of thought, only of existing.
“Sierra?” Conor whispers beside me.
Slowly, I turn to him. Where I expect gloating in his expression if he caught me salivating over his arms, what’s actually reflected in it is concern. Like maybe he thinks I’m panicking over the presentation.
That snaps me out of the haze. I’m nothing if not professional. And I’m not going to showanyweakness in front of my rival.
My pulse spikes. I tuck my hands under the table so neither of them can see them shake. I hate this. I hate that I feel this visceral need to be the best, to prove I know more than anyone else, which makes the possibility of that not being the case feel so much more terrifying than it makes sense. It’s why I snapped at Conor. It’s the real reason I can’t stand him. For some reason, his presence alone has the power to make me feel inadequate. And if Richard says something to critique my presentation and Conor joins him… I’m a raw nerve right now—it wouldn’t be pretty.
