Page 4 of Dead Set on You
Hating my body’s traitorous reactions, I glare at him until he reaches the table and slides into his seat, dismissing the hostess with another knee-buckling smile.
“Hey,” he says, his warm voice making me sit straighter.
“Hi.” I avoid—anddeeplyresent—my body’s insurrection to the enemy’s nearness. “You’re late.”
“Had a long commute.” Rafael’s smile turns more devilish.
I know he’s baiting me, and because I’m a consummate professional who absolutely will not lose her calm in the final stretch of this race, I bite my tongue and hold his gaze. Rafael’s eyes don’t stray from mine as his fingers snake around the stem of his glass and lift it, swirling the red wine before he takes a whiff.
I think his lips twitch as he brings the crystal to his mouth, downs a big gulp, and smacks his lips. “Not bad.”
I blink. “We’re at the Aviary, not Olive Garden,Rafael.”
“It’s hard to tell with the lights so low,Evie.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“I think the word you’re looking for israkish.” Rafael winks, draping an arm on the back of the chair, scanning me in a way that coaxes another heat wave to the surface (much like the onset of a terminal fever).
“Far from it,” I scoff, starting to think it’s ice-cold water, not wine, I need to make it through tonight.
I wouldn’t have had this problem if I’d found a way to keep him from coming, not that I didn’t try. Often and with bribes. I even offered him guest passes to the country club he’s been trying to get into for years, but he’s so far down the wait list, he has better chances working there as a cart attendant. Dangling that exclusive carrot was about as effective as the thirty emails I sent our boss, begging her to let me do this solo. None of it worked. So here he is, going for the promotion he wants as badly as I do.
Am I worried he’ll get it? Maybe. A little bit.
Not only is he good at his job (not that I’d ever admit it out loud, not even on my deathbed), but everyone at Media Lab adores him. He’s got pull, like gravity—effortless, inevitable. It’s infuriating. It’s also what made him my friend once—for almost three years after I joined. We were two junior associates then, tackling impossible deadlines and our boss’s endless expectations. He used to save me from vending machine lunches, and I used to cover for him when he ran late. We had each other’s backs.
Until he didn’t.
Until he made a decision I never saw coming and stopped being someone I could trust.
Since then, staying in the running for the promotion has been a balancing act. While I’ve worked hard to prove myself to MediaLab’s mostly male ecosystem, I’ve also sprinted like hell to keep up with Rafael, because losing this promotion isn’t just about righting a two-year-old wrong. It’s about not fallingback. Back to hunger, homelessness, and all thelessnesses I’ve clawed my way out from.
It’s been the marathon with no finish line, and if I’m being honest, I don’t know how much more running I have left in me. I’ve passed too many stops and too many people along the way. Sometimes I wonder if there’s a point when it’s too late to stop.
I told myself thirty was the finish line. Land the promotion (and its financial security) and then I’d stop running. Then I’d start checking off all the other things I’ve put off—like the ninety-two items on my bucket list, a real vacation, maybe even a relationship not built on sabotage and sarcasm. Life.
An uneasy, familiar feeling lodges low in my belly, famished for my attention. I shove it aside before it can crawl into the space between my ribs and make itself at home.
“Hey. You feeling okay?” Rafael’s voice whips me back to the table. The smirk I’ve come to associate with his usual smugness is gone, replaced by a different look. A look I’ve seen on him lately and not yet deciphered. Probably because he hasn’t pulled anything nefarious today. No fake calendar invites. No last-minute deck edits. No classic Vela sabotage. Yet.
The silence—that look—makes me nervous.
Because he could be waiting for the perfect moment to wrangle this account—the promotion—from me, and tonight could be it.
“No need to stress, E. You can do this with your eyes closed,” he adds, voice low. Almost soft.
“I’m—I know,” I snap, surprised and confused.Did he just compliment me?
I search his unfairly handsome face. I know every Vela tactic in the book—and none work on me.
“You’re so tense, I figured you needed a reminder.”
“I’m perfectly fine,” I say too quickly.
“You’re going to snap the glass in two.” His gaze flicks to my hand.
I loosen my hold. “I’m. Fine.”
