Page 7 of One Small Secret

Because I’ll never, ever tell anyone about it.

I reach for the door handle, but it’s already swinging toward me. Before I can step away, the door hits me solidly on the forehead. A sharp jolt of pain makes my mind go blank and I stumble into the chair I'd forgotten to push back in. It spins and crashes into the table, Marilyn goes flying, and I land on my butt in a heap.

I curse much louder than I should in present company, and my hand flies to my forehead. If I’m bleeding it will be the perfect end to my morning.

“What the—?” A deep voice that I instantly recognize echoes in my ringing ears. Of course he would be the one stepping into the conference room.

I look at my hand. No blood. At least there’s that. I take a deep, fortifying breath, look up, and a few more choice words cross my mind.

His dark hair is longer than it was three years ago. That isn’t a surprise. I follow him on social media, and even if I didn’t I would’ve still seen him on news platforms. It looks good on him. Everything always looks good on him. This day couldn’t get worse.

Ruben.

But it does get worse. Ruben's eyes furrow and he looks with concern at my head. Then, probably after making the same assessment I did—no blood—his eyes drop from my face to Moira’s bag, my disheveled shirt, and finally, my well-loved sneakers. He blinks a few times, then looks at the name badge hanging from my neck. “Ms. Crane.”

He looked at my name badge? I went to high school with this man. We were on the debate team together, and I scored higher than him on speech every single time. I made out with his friend on his grandfather’s couch, for heaven’s sake. Ms. Crane?

“Sorry,” I mumble. “I’m in the wrong room.”

Wait. Why am I apologizing? He's the one who may have just given me a concussion.

He reaches for my arm, but then seems to think better of it. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine. You barely bumped me.”

No one will believe that statement with my bag, coat, and half my body sprawled about the floor. Ruben looks zero percent convinced, but there's no chance I’m staying in this room a moment longer. I grab my coat and leverage myself up with the chair. I'd hoped to make a name for myself returning to corporate. Well, the VPs are not likely to forget me now.

I bundle my coat close to my chest and reach for my bag. A can of Vienna sausages and a tube of some sort of ointment slipped out during the fall. I grab the sausages. Gross. I can’t believe Moira feeds them to her child. Ruben reaches the ointment first. Subtle veins run along the top of his tan hand, and his fingers end in neatly trimmed nails. Even his hands are photograph-worthy. I remind myself that we used to be friends, so I really shouldn’t hate him for that. But then I gasp when I finally notice what he’s holding.

The tube is purple, and slashed across the top of it are the words: Extra Moisturizing Double Duty Rash Cream. He’s looking at it like it’s a Rubik’s cube needing solving.

I snatch it out of his hand and toss it in Marilyn Monroe with the disgusting sausages.

I need to get out of this room. I lunge toward the door, but Ruben is still propping it open with one foot, taking up half the doorway. There is no way I’m getting out of this room without him moving—not unless he wants me sliding past him and grazing his arms and chest as I go.

I bite my lip. He must see my predicament. But his eyes are on Marilyn, no doubt baffled not only by the sheer amount of tackiness, but the unsettling contents inside. I clear my throat softly. There's no way I am sliding my body past America’s Heartthrob. Because here’s the thing. I’m not above admitting that with his olive skin, perfect floppy hair, and thick, dark eyebrows he is next level good looking. Nor am I denying the way he sometimes has this look in his eyes that draws people to him. But I’m one hundred percent blaming social media for the way my proximity radar goes off just because I’m within inches of him. His magnetism can’t be all natural. It’s propaganda and most of the world has been brainwashed by it. I pride myself in being less brainwashed than most, but I’m not sliding against that tailored white shirt and open suit jacket.

“Excuse me.” My voice almost cracks and I’m not certain he heard me, but a second later he drags his eyes off my bag and steps into the room. I jump through the door and escape faster than a stingy hotel guest sliding past the concierge desk forty minutes after check-out time.

CHAPTER FIVE

I’m not surprised when Mr. Auger calls me into his office an hour later. Christian looks up in interest and I grimace at him. If I’d had my briefcase I would have been able to change my shoes, but instead, I’ll have to go in looking almost as unpresentable as I was in the conference room. I throw back my shoulders and march toward his glass office.

“What’s going on?” Christian mouths as I walk by, but I just shrug. I’m not going to admit to the colossal mistake I made this morning. Not yet. Probably not ever.

I shut the door behind me. And for the first time, I think perhaps whoever designed the whole glass office thing hadn’t been a complete idiot. If the conference room had been glass, I would have seen right away who was in it. Even if only the door had been glass, Ruben would’ve seen me and I wouldn't have this amazing goose egg on my head.

“I’m so sorry about this morning. I assumed the planning meeting was happening in the conference room. I was running late and didn’t check.”

Mr. Auger pushes his glasses further up his nose and squints his eyes at me. “You didn’t get the email regarding the change?”

“No, sorry. I haven’t seen it.” I give him a nervous laugh. One I've heard from too many lackluster employees, but not one I’ve never needed to use. “It’s a funny story, actually. I grabbed the wrong—”

“Nothing about this situation is funny, Cadence,” he says, with more ice than I've ever heard in his voice. Mr. Auger isn’t the most reliable boss I’ve had. He’s lost more than a few of my correspondences, including several about my Laos proposal, but he’s always been extremely kind. “Do you know who was in that conference room?”

Unfortunately I did—at least, most of them. I nod.

“Then you must know how embarrassing it was for me to have to explain why my employee burst into the meeting looking like some teenager at a concert.”

---