The rest of the day is as much of a shitshow as the morning.
Every damn place I go, the conversation ceases, leaving only awkward silence. Yeah. I get it. My love life is top gossip material right now.
As angry as I am with Scott, I have no intention of airing my dirty laundry.
Who wants to advertise that they were a fool engaged to a cheater? Ugh.
I spend way too much ti avoiding Scott, which only serves to drive resentnt deeper. Dating in the workplace is stupid, and now I have to worry about every interaction between us.
Not to ntion dating your boss.
Double stupid.
I must have thrown my brain in the dumpster when I gave in to his persistent overtures.
A sharp snap jolts from my brooding. I blink, focusing on the hand waving in front of my face.
"Earth to Nicole. You in there?"
Shit. How long has he been talking? I plaster on a smile, hoping it doesn't look as fake as it feels. "Sorry, Mike. Got lost in thought for a second. What were you saying?"
Mike leans against my cubicle wall, his brow furrowed. "You okay? You've been spacing out all day."
"I'm fine." The words taste like dirt in my mouth. "Just partied a little too hard last night." Which is very true. A little too true. And now my brain wants to go down the rabbit hole of powerful hands and firm abs and—Oh my God. Not here, brain! I'm at work!
He nods, but I can see the doubt in his eyes as they flicker toward Scott's office. "If you say so. Anyway, I was asking if you'd heard about the new liaison project?"
My eyebrows shoot up. "Liaison project? What liaison project?"
Mike's eyes widen. "You haven't heard? I thought for sure Scott would've told you."
The ntion of Scott's na sends a fresh wave of anger through . I grit my teeth, forcing my voice to remain neutral. This is a clear fishing expedition, but the information is desirable enough that I take the bait. "Scott and I aren't exactly on speaking terms right now."
"Oh." Mike clears his throat. "Sorry, I didn't an to—"
Liar. I wave off his apology. "It's fine. Tell about this project."
He hesitates for a mont, then shrugs. "Well, from what I've heard, we're going to be working with another departnt on so big case. Sothing a little bigger than our usual consulting."
My curiosity piques, montarily pushing aside thoughts of barracuda gossipers. "Which departnt?"
"That's the thing," Mike leans in, lowering his voice. "Nobody knows. It's all very hush-hush. So people say it's over the serial vampire murders."
I scoff. "The Supernatural Enforcent Division would never stoop to consulting with us."
Our company is the best of the best. That cos with a price tag. SED Officers aren't fond of that.
"Do we know anything about the case?"
Mike shakes his head. "Not much. Just that it's big enough to warrant interdepartntal cooperation."
I lean back in my chair with a frown. For sothing of this level to happen, it would need to be in the works for a while—or sothing huge happened behind the scenes to necessitate urgency.
"When did you hear about this?" I ask, trying to keep the edge out of my voice. It isn't his fault that I'm in the dark, after all.
Presumably, none of us should even know about it.
But if Mike knows and I don't—I know exactly who to bla.
"Just this morning. Scott called a eting with so of the team leads." Mike's expression turns sympathetic. "I'm sure he was planning to tell you..."
Fucking bingo.
A sharp laugh escapes before I can cut it off. "Right. Of course he was."
Mike winces. "Look, Nicole, I don't know what's going on between you two, but—"
"Nothing's going on," I snap, then imdiately regret it. It's not Mike's fault my personal life is imploding. I take a deep breath, forcing my voice to soften. "Sorry. I appreciate you filling in."
Maybe he isn't a barracuda gossip after all.
He nods, clearly eager to escape the awkward situation. "No problem. I should get back to work. Let know if you need anything, okay?"
I watch him retreat, twirling a pen in my hands. A liaison project with the Supernatural Enforcent Division, but Scott didn't see the need to invite to the eting? I'm one of our top anti-magic security specialists, for fuck's sake.
There's no way I'm going to let him fuck over my career when he's the asshole in our little soap opera.
I pull up my work email, scanning for any ntion of the project. Nothing. Not even a vague hint.
Frustration bubbles up inside . I should be excited about this. A chance to work on sothing big, to prove myself beyond the shadow of my relationship with Scott.
Instead, I'm being left in the dark.
My gaze drifts to Scott's office. The blinds are drawn, but I can see the faint outline of him moving around inside. Part of wants to storm in there and demand answers. But the larger, more rational part knows that's a terrible idea.
I can't let our personal drama affect my work. I've worked too damn hard to get where I am.
And whoever he was before yesterday doesn't matter.
Now, he's my boss. Nothing more.
I have zero reason to expect anything from that jerk.
My computer chis with a new email notification. For a mont, I hope it's about the project. But it's just a reminder about the upcoming office potluck. I delete it with more force than necessary.
I shove my frustrations aside and focus on the projects demanding my attention. The Fernsby quote needs a follow-up, especially if Scott's going to hang it over my head. I wouldn't put it past him to claim my productivity's down and write up for a poor attitude.
His hot-and-cold routine is already old, and the day's barely started.
I check my inbox, expecting Fernsby's usual prompt response.
Empty.
Odd. They're never this tardy.
I scribble a note to call them tomorrow. Can't let this one slip through the cracks. It's too lucrative to lose over a missed email.
My fingers fly over the keyboard, churning out responses to a backlog of ssages. Delete. Archive. Flag for later. The rhythm of work soothes my frayed nerves, pushing thoughts of Scott and mystery projects to the back of my mind.
A shrill beep cuts through my concentration. A notification lights up my phone screen, warning about an upcoming appointnt.
It's 1:55 PM. The appointnt is slotted for 2:00.
Is it that late already? Triple shit on a sundae. I worked right through lunch, and my stomach—now aware of what it's missing—twists and growls in my belly, frustrated with its neglect.
"Dammit," I groan, rubbing my temples. "This is how it starts. Skip lunch once, and suddenly you're that person who lives off coffee and vending machine crackers." The vending machines here aren't terrible, but my hips don't need any extra padding from the empty calories.
"Sounds like you've got it bad."
The deep, husky voice sends a jolt through . I whirl around, nearly toppling out of my chair.
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