Page 2 of Dear Hattie

For god’s sake. He’s talking about jumping in a ball pit, not crawling into bed with me. Not that I’d let him do either.

“In your dreams, Tanaka.”

It’s hard to fight your way out of a ball pit with grace, but I give it my best shot. Lurid plastic balls shower off my front, bouncing hollowly, and I grit my teeth as I wade to the edge. Wesley waits patiently as I go back for my left shoe, my whole face on fire.

“As your mentor, Harriet—”

“You arenotmy mentor.”

“—I have a duty of care. Be honest with me. Have you finally snapped?”

Scoffing, I ignore his offered hand and wobble my way out of the ball pit unassisted. A flash of something like disappointment ripples over Wesley’s face, then he’s back to a teasing smile, hands tucked in his pockets. He’s still looming.

Sounds are louder out here in the real world, and the smell of the nearby pretzel cart makes my stomach clench. Cinnamon sugar and warm dough. When did I last eat? Simone called me on Saturday night, and after that… I don’t remember. It’s all a blur of misery and binge-watching cheesy detective shows. There may have been a handful of goldfish crackers on Sunday afternoon. Is that all?

My legs tremble.

Wesley sighs the special, long-suffering sigh he saves for me, and takes my elbow. “A duty of care,” he repeats, and steers me toward the pretzel cart. This close, I can smell him too: soap, laundry detergent, fresh wind, green leaves. “Come on, Small Fry. Eat some sugar and tell me why you’ve gone insane.”

“I’m not hungry,” I lie, tugging on my arm.

Wesley lets go, but still shepherds me over to the break area. And I really must be at rock bottom, because Ilethim. I let Wesley Tanaka—the bane of my life, my sworn enemy—boss me around, fussing like a mother hen. I let him buy me a cinnamon sugar soft pretzel and a milky coffee from the cart; let him sit me down at a small table by the window, then drop into the chair opposite and fix me with thatstare.

Here’s something you need to know: ever since I started work here two years ago, Wesley Tanaka has looked at me like I’m a puzzle he can’t solve. Like an unfinished riddle. And for a man who solves rubix cubes absentmindedly in the middle of work meetings, that’s saying something. I drive this guyinsane.

Well, the feeling is mutual. Always has been.

I clear my throat, kicking at the legs of my chair. “Thank you for the pretzel,” I mutter.

“And the coffee, you ungrateful wretch.”

I press my lips together then say, “And the coffee.”

Wesley’s eyes glitter. I fiddle with my napkin.

Usually, a secret part of me loves our back-and-forth. The constant bickering; the merciless teasing; the ceaseless attempts to one-up each other. I’m into it. Usually, I walk away from a Wesley Tanaka encounter with fifty volts of electricity humming through my veins.

Not today. Today, I raised my white flag the second I saw Simone’s empty chair, and Wesley can sense it. He’s frowning, his perfect forehead pinched with concern. When he props his elbows on the table, those sculpted shoulders bulge beneath his dark blue Henley.

Hate that I notice that detail. Hate that I’m hypnotized… again.

“Tell me,” he commands.

My nose wrinkles, and I tear my eyes away from the glory of his collarbone. “Notmy mentor, remember? Or my boss.” Technically speaking, as the sole writer left on the Dear Hattie column, I’m now a lone wolf. A department all of my own. A sad little one-woman band.

“Tell me,” he tries again, coaxing this time. And with the low, rich timbre of his voice… I hide a shiver and shrug, biting off a mouthful of cinnamon pretzel instead.

I figure he’ll get bored soon and go find someone else to torture. But Wesley Tanaka, recording studio manager and general wunderkind of Pretzel Media, sits across from me with a stubborn set to his jaw that says he has no place else to be.

Side note: thatjawline.Life is unfair.

But I have to at least try to get rid of him. My pride demands it. “Don’t your podcast ducklings need you?”

Wesley raises an eyebrow. “Quit stalling.”

Ugh. Am I really going to do this? Am I really going to confess my most private, pathetic feelings to the man who lives to sniff out my weaknesses?

Huh. Guess I am.

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