During the short walk down the hall to my office, and as was typical, instead of dwelling on my increasingly complex feelings for Quinn or the unpleasant altercation with my sister, my mind ambled. I wondered about and made a mental note to check on the content of carpet fibers, more precisely: what made the current generation of carpet stain resistant? Were eco-friendly approaches to carpet manufacturing currently the norm? What country could claim the title as leader in office-carpet exports?

Still studying the carpet, I opened the closed door to my office and was startled out of my floor-focus by the presence of unexpected company.

Olivia was inside my office standing behind my desk. Her back was stiff and her eyes were wide as they met mine, her hand flew to her chest and she sucked in a loud breath.

I hesitated, frowned, glanced at the name outside the office to ensure I had the right door. When I confirmed that it was, indeed, my office and she was, indeed, in my office, I returned my gaze to her and waited for an explanation.

A protracted period of time stretched and we silently eyeballed each other. She looked very well assembled- as typical- and, even though I was the one to find her unexpectedly in my office, with the door closed, she appeared to be waiting for me to explain my presence.

I waited two beats longer then lifted my eyebrows, my chin dipped. “Well?”

“Can I help you?” Olivia crossed her arms over her chest and leaned her hip against my desk.

I blinked at her and wondered momentarily if I were still dreaming. “What are you doing in my office?”

“It’s not your office, it doesn’t belong to you, it’s the company’s office.” She huffed.

She actually huffed.

It was a breathy sound, over exaggerated, combined with a bit of an exhale-snort.

I crossed my arms, mimicking her stance, mostly to hide the fact that my hands were clenched in fists. “Olivia. What are you doing in the office which has been assigned to me by the company, with all my papers and confidential reports, with the door closed?”

She raised a single, impressively well-groomed eyebrow, “I’m looking for the updated schematic of the Las Vegas space.”

I shook my head, “It hasn’t been sent to us by the group in Las Vegas yet; they said they would email it by Friday.”

“Oh. Well, then, just send it over to me when you get it. No one can move forward with the new plans until you send it to the group.” Olivia’s tone and manner were so flippant that I almost actually felt like it was my fault that the client hadn’t yet sent the schematic.

I clenched my jaw, “As soon as I receive it from the client I will distribute it to group.”

Olivia issued me a tight-lipped non-smile and moved passed me into the hallway without any further remark.

What. The. Hell…?

Somewhat grudgingly rooted in place, uncertain whether I wanted to push the issue by hall heckling her or just simply mope somberly, I watched her retreating form as she left; her steps hurried, her pace almost road-runner frantic. Then, shaking myself, I eye-rolled all the way into my office and heaved a gigantic sigh; I recognized that my earlier uneasiness had been replaced- or, more accurately, substituted- with immense irritation.

As I approached my desk I glanced at its contents; all the papers and folders were neatly stacked into piles, organized, just as I’d left them yesterday. I checked the drawers and found that they were still locked. My desktop PC was also locked. If she’d been looking for something in particular I could see no outward sign that anything had been rummaged or disturbed.

The tightness in my chest constricted, now vacillating between annoyance and anxiety, and I fell into my office chair. I attempted to sooth it away by clearing my mind, staring out the window, allowing myself to drift on white, puffy clouds visible in the distance.

For the first time in recent memory I successfully endeavored to sit and be still, thinking about nothing at all. I sky-watched until my eyes felt dry from staring.

At some indeterminable time later, the sound of laughter and normal office conversation pulled me out of my trance. I blinked, rubbed my closed lids, and decided to make an honorable attempt at getting work done. I didn’t think about carpet or Quinn or Jem or Olivia. Instead, I clung to the impersonal numbness of my task list.

Thus, ignoring the stack of memos and printed reports on my desk, I lost myself to spreadsheets and glorious pivot tables; to requirements documents and billing-software workflows. The tension around my lungs eased with every passing hour, with deeper emersion into numbers and visio swim lane charts.

The sound of my office door closing abruptly brought my attention back to the present and to the man who’d just entered.

I blinked. I gaped. I stood.

Simmering warmth slid from my stomach to the tips of my ears, inexplicably relaxing any remaining tightness in my chest like a salve, as I registered that Quinn was standing in front of the closed door. He was smiling in that odd, quiet way of his, not with any perceivable curve of his mouth but rather with a subtle glint in his eyes and lift of his chin.

My resultant, very obvious, grin at his presence couldn’t be helped any more than I could catch those errant teeth in my dream. I loved that he was wearing faded blue jeans and a long sleeve black shirt. He hadn’t shaved since I last saw him.

“Hi.”

“Hi.” I auto-responded, spreadsheets and pivot tables forgotten.

He crossed to me and gave me a quick, soft kiss before I could discern or properly appreciate his intention. Immediately he straightened and held a paper bag between us. It was yellow and grease stained; black writing spelled out ‘Al’s Beef.’

“I have Italian beef and French fries.”

I pulled my attention from the bag and met his narrowed blue gaze. Again, a sincere automatic smile further opened my features to him. “You brought me Al’s Beef for breakfast?”

His lips pulled to the side, his eyes moving between mine, and he turned his head just slightly, “No, I brought you lunch. It’s almost three.”

My mouth opened and I glanced at the watch on my wrist. It was, indeed, almost 3pm.

“Oh my gosh.”

Quinn placed the bag of food on the desk and started distributing its contents: sandwich and fries for me; sandwich and fries for him. He even pulled out two green food baskets, presumably so that we could enjoy an authentic Al’s Beef dine-in experience within the comfort of my office.

“Sit.” He motioned to my chair as he claimed the seat on the other side of my desk.

I obeyed but didn’t immediately unwrap my food, instead opted to watch him, until my stomach grumbled. It, presumably, just now realizing that I hadn’t eaten all day, swiftly demanded my attention. The smell of fries and roast beef made my mouth water.

Mimicking his movements I dumped my fries into the basket and pulled the paper away from the Italian beef, revealing a deliciously soggy sandwich. He was already eating, the sandwich disappearing by fourths with each bite. He seemed so completely at ease, as though his appearance at the office, bringing me lunch, were an everyday occurrence.

As though it were expected.

His closing the door for privacy, the swift kiss, bringing lunch; it was something that people who were dating did. I knew this. I used to date someone. But with Quinn everything felt meaningful in a way it never did with Jon.

I picked up my sandwich and lifted it to my mouth but didn’t take a bite.

I was too busy noticing things about him that I couldn’t recall caring to notice about anyone else. I was acutely aware of Quinn’s movements; of the placement of his hands on the sandwich; his nonchalant, carefree mood; how he was dressed and the amount of skin exposed; the length of his hair. The number of details felt overwhelming but I was greedy for specifics, greedy to know and memorize everything about him.

I felt like a kettle set to boil; any minute I was going to steam up from all the details and start screaming.

I blurted, “I’m not really sure how to do this.” I abruptly dropped the sandwich into the basket and leaned backwards in my chair.

Quinn waited until he finished chewing to respond; his eyes moved from me to the sandwich, “Do what?”

“Be the girl you’re dating.”

His mouth curved upward in a trace of a smile. “Do you want a handbook for that too? Because I’d like to be involved in sketching the diagrams.”

I pressed my lips together and pummeled him with a single French-fry. He started to laugh, obviously unable to contain himself, and my face flamed.

“You know what I mean.” I didn’t look at him; rather I stared at my basket of Italian beef and seasoned fries.

He stopped laughing but not all at once; he allowed it to taper off gradually. I glanced at him through my eyelashes; a huge smile still asserted itself over his features and he was looking at me with a sanguine, untroubled expression.

He looked happy.

My heart fluttered- yes, fluttered- uncontrollably. The flutter morphed into a flapping monsoon as I watched his smile fade from broad to slight and his gaze darken, intensify, and scorch.

“You’re so beautiful.” It was said on a sigh, as though he said and thought the sentiment at the same time and hadn’t quite realized the words had been spoken aloud.

I felt the compliment acutely, like the spike in your senses when you smell pepper, but in a slightly scary and thrilling way. I lifted my head and blinked at him, my mouth slightly agape. His eyes traveled over my lips, hair, neck, then lower. I noticed he was holding his napkin as though someone might be inclined to steal it.