Page 51
He raises his hands in surrender, eyes wide. “Alright, gotcha. I’m stopping.”
Sure you are.
The second he disappears back below the partition, a wave of nausea curls through my stomach, bile and battery acid searing up my throat.
Breathe. Don’t vomit. Don’t combust. Don’t die.
I rise from my chair calmly, and weave through the bullpen with my chin held high and my face neutral, already drafting both my resignation and obituary.
The second I make it into the bathroom, I lock myself in a stall and sit down on the toilet seat, cold porcelain biting through my skirt. Then I pull out my phone and dim the screen until it’s barely visible — like I’m about to search how to hide a body, instead of ‘how to fuck the senior account lead and get away with it.’
The corporate-blue PDF opens up on my screen, and I scroll.
3.4 Romantic/sexual relationships between supervisory and subordinate employees are prohibited.
3.4(a) Such relationships may result in corrective action, up to and including termination.
Supervisory. Subordinate.
Noah. Me.
3.5 Conflicts of interest: Employees must avoid even the appearance of favoritism or undue influence.
I breathe out through my nose, trying to blink back my own bullshit. My thumbs are shaking, so I pin one against the edge of the case until it steadies, and scroll some more, just for extra-added torture.
3.6 Workplace conduct: No physical displays on company property or at company events. Supervisor–direct report 1:1s must be business-related; keep visible where possible and calendar private meetings.
3.7 Social media: Avoid content that could create the appearance of favoritism or an internal relationship (e.g., intimate photos, suggestive captions.) Neutral, work-related recognition is fine when professional and inclusive.
3.8 Gifts & perks: No personal gifts, money, favors, or special treatment between managers and their reports. Team-wide nominal tokens (≤$20) only; anything else needs HR approval.
You wanted rules, Sable. Here they are. Signed, sealed, published in PDF, and boring enough to change your life.
I sigh and rub at the bridge of my nose. It isn’t like I didn’t know this existed. Of course I did. We all joked about it during onboarding—don’t bang up the chain, don’t bang down the chain. Easy. And I’ve had the mental threat of HR hanging over my ass since the day I decided to open my legs in Noah’s passenger seat. But the words in black and white still punch like a body check to the labia.
All I can think about is Sam’s grin and Eleanor’s giggle, my life at the brink of being run through the office grapevine like it’s a juicer. Is nothing sacred anymore, or did we auction that off with the printer toner?
I scroll harder than necessary, thumb skidding across the screen. Where’s the clause for best friends with sieve mouths? 3.point-whatever: Employees shall refrain from broadcasting their colleagues’ addresses and/or elevator habits to the entire bullpen. 3.point-more: If your info came with “you didn’t hear this from me,” it dies there. 3.point-extra: shut up!
I lock my phone and drop my head into my hands.
That’s it, then. I’m fucked.
My few weeks of Noah Calloway begging to make me feel good—gone. Done. Dead in the water.
We said we’d fix it if it started to cost us. And I guess it’s costing us.
And I can’t even be mad. We called it from the start—clean lines, no drama. Keep the job. Keep it quiet. Keep it contained.
But now I’m sitting in a bathroom stall like a teenager with a crush and a crisis, mourning something that technically never even started, all because I turned into a horny little rat-ling, and decided it would be the best idea ever to spread my legs for the one person who should’ve been off-limits from the start.
Chapter 19
Noah
“Change of plan today, Noah.”
I glance up from my laptop, fingers hovering over the trackpad. Marla’s standing at the doorway to my office, tablet in one hand, coffee in the other, expression somewhere between exasperated and bored.
