Page 16 of Mostly Loathing You

Hannah tenses at my sudden intrusion, but quickly relaxes. “The document, uh—it says it’s the Wellington statement, but I can’t find it on the flash drive you gave me.”

Fuuuuuuuuck.

“Shit, uh—” I scratch the nape of my neck. “Pull up the flash drive, please.”

Her expression shifts to something of confusion at my use of pleasantries.

Jesus Christ, Hannah, I’m not a Neanderthal. I understand basic human decency.

She does as I ask, pulling up the contents of the drive. She’s right—there isn’t anything labeled “Wellington.” Sweat begins to pepper the back of my neck as I flush. This can’t be happening.

“Open the file marked ‘Irrelevant Evidence,’ please.”

Hannah does as I request, opening the folder that houses an absolute headache of chaotic folders and files, none of which have consistent names to even point us in the right direction.

See, this is why we are so meticulous in our naming conventions here at Baker & Park.

“There,” I say, leaning forward to look closer at her screen as I point to a file named “Well-Depo.”

Once again, she does as I ask and, to my relief, it’s the statement we were looking for.

“Oh, thank God,” Hannah whispers to herself in relief.

It is then that I realize how close I am; so much so that I smell the faint mixture of citrus and ylang-ylang mingled with peppermint.

It’s nice.

“Yeah…thank God,” I sigh, noticing the skin on her neck pebble as I say it. Why that is, I can’t be sure, but it’s odd.

My hand grips the back of her chair, my body still leaning over hers. The realization hits me that this is the closest we’ve been in years, and that revelation should horrify me. The air around us seems to thicken, yet I don’t move…I feel paralyzed. I notice the way Hannah’s breathing becomes more labored, the rise and fall of her chest causing my eyes to wander…clinging to areas I shouldn’t peruse.

The scan card lock beeps on the office door, causing me to jerk away from Hannah as if I was doing something lewd, not helping her with a work task.

Jesus, what the hell is wrong with me?

“Liam.” My dad’s deep voice carries, pulling my eyes to his.

I button my suit jacket, making my way back to my desk in an attempt to find a level of familiarity.

“Hi, Stephen.” Hannah’s voice is peppier than it ever is when directed at me, the false kindness causing me to resist the urge to gag in response. If it were anyone but my dad, I would, but that sounds like a one-way ticket to being reprimanded and potentially a mandatory seminar on proper workplace etiquette. He’s typically a relaxed guy in most respects, evenwith employees, but he has a serious stance on anything that could be construed as hateful or rude amongst staff.

“Hannah.” He grins at her before his eyes dart back to my own. “Why is she still here?”

This earns an eye roll from me, one that I hope he doesn’t notice. “She’s helping me compile notes for the Tollies case.”

To be frank, I probably could have handled it myself, but what is the value in having an assistant if they aren’t going to make your life easier?

“Are you almost wrapped up?” he asks, a gentleness in his voice toward Hannah.

“I think so—”

“Head home, Hannah.”

Wait, what?

I understand it is his company, but telling Hannah to leave when I’ve clearly given her a task is undermining, and I don’t like it. Though I’ve never really cared about that, now it has me fuming.

“We’re working on something,” I say, trying to keep my irritation at bay.

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