Page 42 of His Wall

I went back to my desk.

My heart was loud. I sat down at my desk and put my hands on the keyboard and made myself type the email to Margaret Rhodes's office and it took me three tries to get the salutation right.

The line was supposed to hold.

The line was failing.

I refilled the coffee pot at 11:20 a.m.

The kitchen off the main hall was empty when I went in. I had the empty pot in my left hand and a clean filter in my right and I crossed to the coffee station and started the rinse. The door behind me opened, and I did not need to turn around to know who it was.

Julian crossed to the cabinet on my right.

He stood with his back to it. His shoulder was an inch from mine. He had a mug in his hand, and he was looking at the cabinet over my head as though he did not already know which shelf the canister of ground coffee was on.

I reached past him for a clean mug from the upper shelf.

He did not move.

I lifted the mug down. My arm was a quarter-inch from his chest. The smell of him was right there — the warm cotton of the shirt, the faint clean of his soap, the ghost of the shower he had taken three hours ago.

"You're in my way, Mr. Cross."

"You're in mine.”

Neither of us moved.

His hazel eyes were on mine, his mouth was a foot from my face. His free hand had come up off his side and was resting flat against the cabinet door behind me, an inch from my hip, not touching. The line I decided to draw this morning was about to break in a kitchen, with a mug in my hand.

The door opened.

"Oh — sorry, Julian, I just need — sorry — passing through — "

There stood James from accounting in the doorway, folder under his arm, gaze fixed downward, inching past us toward the espresso machine with the chagrin of someone who'd clearly entered the wrong space.

Julian stepped back.

The grin came back at the corner of his mouth.

"James. Walk me back to my office. You're going to talk to me about Q3."

"I — yeah, sure, yeah — "

He left with James.

I stood at the coffee station with the empty mug in my hand and the coffee pot still in the sink. My hand on the mug was not steady. I set the mug down on the counter and gripped the edge with both hands. I tried to calm my racing heart by breathing slowly.

James had saved me. James from accounting had saved me from going against the decision I made this morning. The gratitude I felt for him was disproportionate to the way I was going to nod at him on the way past his desk for the rest of the week.

I made the coffee.

I went back to my desk.

I worked.

By 5:30 p.m. I had answered eighteen emails, rerouted Vega's call to Friday, confirmed the Klein update for Wednesday, printed three copies of the partners' meeting agenda for tomorrow, and had not thought about Julian Cross more than twice every minute.

I was packing my bag when he came out of his office.