Page 5 of Dear Hattie

But how to torment her?

“Still homeless, then?” I nod at the laptop and notebook by her knee. Harriet grunts and tugs them closer—like I might lunge forward and snatch her office equipment. “You know, there are spare work pods on the fourth floor.” Near mine.

“My reallocation request is pending,” Harriet says, bone dry. We both know what that means: her email has flown into the void, never to be read by a soul.

“Well, there’s always room for a little one in the recording studio,” I hear myself say, then force a bland smile on my face. Can’t let her see that I’m shocked by my own offer, because I learned with Harriet Fry early on: never let her sense weakness. The little minx will pounce.

Besides, it makeszerosense that I’ve offered her that. Nothing beyond the telltale fact that I want this girl near.

She scoffs and tilts her head, her braid sliding further down her shoulder. “Can you do that, Wesley? Can you tuck a whole department under your wing?”

I can when the department comes in a slender five foot six package. Harriet would fit very nicely under my wing, thank you. Like she was tailor-made for me.

Strolling along the side of the pod, I sink onto the bench and kick my legs up. “Only if you promise to be very, very quiet.”

Harriet stiffens when I tap her on the nose, and I bite the inside of my cheek. I’ve missed this. Missed our bickering. It’s beendays.

Monday didn’t count, either. She was too broken already, too sad. God, it just about killed me seeing Harriet Fry brought so low. I’ve never felt so useless.

But it’s Thursday and she’s back in fighting form, squaring up to me with fire in her eyes. Good. Great.

“Did you need something, Wesley?” Shit, I love when she grits my name between her teeth. Sends a bolt of heat arrowing through my gut. “Because I have actual work to do.”

Sighing, I slide down to lay flat, cushioning my head on one arm as I peer up at her. “Go ahead,Hattie. I won’t disturb you. I don’t snore.”

Her mouth drops open. “You’re not sleeping in here!”

“Not if you keep yammering on, no.” I close my eyes, wriggling an inch closer, and stifle a grin when she curses under her breath but doesn’t move away.

After a long, long pause, Harriet pulls her laptop up and levers it open. And I came in here to torture her a little, to check she’s back on form, but the rhythmic tapping of keys and her warmth by my side are a hell of a drug.

Minute by minute, breath by breath, the tension I carry around everywhere seeps out of my body. My bones sag into the orange bench; my muscles relax. My breaths get deeper, slower, steady.

When was the last time I truly relaxed? I can’t remember. Everyone always needs meon, firing on all cylinders. The wunderkind. Interns are always pestering me; bosses demanding reports.

This quiet is rare. Intoxicating.

“Why is the bench orange?” I murmur as sleep creeps up on me, muffling my thoughts like cotton wool. It’s warm in here, and the air smells like Harriet’s coconut shampoo. “Orange is not a relaxing color.”

Her voice is soft. Soothing. “It’s the yolk in the egg. Dumbass.”

I fall asleep with my favorite hater by my side, lulled by thetap tap tapof her fingers on the keyboard. Solving everyone’s worldly problems except hers—and mine.

* * *

Everyone turns and gapes an hour later when I stagger back into the Podcasting Zone—our cluster of assigned work pods next to the recording studio. The red light is on above the door, so at leastsomeoneis in there doing work. The rest are too busy gawping at my mid-afternoon bedhead.

“What happened toyou?” one of the finance bros calls. He co-hosts a podcast about NFTs and bitcoin so, naturally, I ignore him.

Flurries of whispers follow me to my assigned work pod, right in the center of the Podcasting Zone. The eye of the storm.

Pretzel Media has this thing about how old offices and cubicle culture arelameand stuck in the past—like we won’t notice that our edgy ‘work pods’ aren’t basically cubicles made to look space-age. This company, I swear.

Cool podcasts, though. And the recording studio is tricked out.

When I look up, the whispers cut off and everyone looks busy. Fine.

“Harriet Fry,” I mutter under my breath, tossing the notepad I’ve been carrying around for hours onto my desk.

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