My phone vibrated again. I let it go to voicemail, then immediately regretted it. I played the message.
“Ms. Reeves, this is Jerry with facilities. Wanted to let you know your desk request is going to take another week. Hope that’s not an issue. Let us know if you need a temporary solution.”
What the hell was going on?
I’d never filed a facilities request. I didn’t even know you could. I checked my Sent folder, found nothing. But in my inbox was the confirmation, sent yesterday morning, from my own account, requesting a new ergonomic setup and a monitor arm.
I double-checked my Outbox. Clean as a nun’s diary and I texted Margot.
ME: Is it possible to sleep-email yourself into a new standing desk then wipe all evidence?
MARGOT: Are you asking if you’ve developed a sleep disorder, or if you’re being gaslit by the system?
ME: Both.
MARGOT: That’s a Tuesday, honey.
The click of polished, high-end shoes on tile is sharper before eight a.m. I heard him before I saw him. Gabriel Valor. Six-foot-whatever, shoulders made for magazine covers, charcoal suit with an open-collar shirt so sharp it could slice steak. He walked like a man who expected the earth to rotate to meet his stride, and somehow it usually did.
I knew he’d make a beeline for my office, even before the glass wall turned his reflection into an approaching phantom. I pretended to be absorbed in my screen. He waited in the doorway, not knocking, just an expectant pause.
“Eliza,” he said.
“Gabriel,” I said, not looking up.
“I take it you’re already aware of the day’s… adjustments,” he said.
I risked a glance. His dark eyes were unreadable, but the slight arch in his eyebrow told me he was as amused by the chaos as I was irritated by it.
“I make it my business to know,” I said.
He walked in, closer than was strictly necessary, and perched on the edge of my desk like a goddamn crow. His jacket opened, revealing a lean, deliberate torso. He didn’t need to posture, but he did anyway. Old habits.
“I need a favor,” he said.
“Shocker,” I said, not missing a beat.
He leaned in, and I could smell the faintest hint of vetiver, soap, and the kind of expensive aftershave that was probably flown in weekly from Paris. He watched me for a reaction, but I gave him nothing.
“I need your team to finalize the merge analysis by this afternoon. There’s a board subcommittee that moved up their timeline.” His tone was casual, but his posture was predatory.
“That wasn’t supposed to happen until next week,” I said, voice icy.
“Priorities shifted.” He shrugged, a perfect little gesture of masculine indifference.
I leaned back, careful to keep my expression neutral. “Is this me doing you a favor, or you throwing me under the bus?”
“I’d never throw you under the bus, Eliza,” he said, a faint smile flickering. “Maybe tie you down, but never under a bus.”
Goosebumps prickled across my skin. “You’d have to catch me first.”
He watched me, eyes dark and dangerous. “Are you getting sleep?”
I blinked. “I hear you need to worry less about my REM cycles and more about your subcommittee.”
A muscle in his jaw ticked. “Just a suggestion. Fatigue affects judgment.”
“So does narcissism.”