MIA
Mondays. The fucking worst.
My headache pulsed in time with the tinny elevator music as my cousin Emily chattered beside me. I flicked a glance in her direction, taking in her sleek blonde ponytail and the perfectly pressed blazer that made her look more like a beauty queen than my part-time assistant. It was hard not to feel dumpy in comparison.
I took a long sip of my coffee, hoping the caffeine would kick in quickly enough to erase both the headache and the echo of my mom’s words from my brain. There was never a good time to hear from her, but a Monday morning phone call was the worst.
“And then Martinez hit that walk-off homer in the bottom of the ninth. You should have seen it, Mia! I was screaming so loud I think the guy in front of me thought I’d lost my mind. Three games into the season and the Knights are already looking like playoff material.”
I nodded, grateful for Emily’s ability to fill silence with stories that required minimal input from me. My phone call with Mom had left me feeling raw, like someone had taken sandpaper to my skin and worked it over until I was nothing but exposed nerve endings.
The usual shit:Have you considered joining a gym, sweetie? You could go to that one Emily goes to. She always looks lovely. Honestly, I don’t know why she’s single. Anyway, I just feel like you’ll enjoy your sister’s wedding more if you’ve dropped a bit of weight. Plus, it’ll make choosing a bridesmaid’s dress for you that much easier.
The elevator doors slid open with a cheerful ding that felt personally offensive.
“I mean, honestly, getting the season pass for the games was the best decision I ever made,” Emily continued, following me onto the second floor of Catalyst Digital’s gleaming headquarters.
My eyes, as if pulled by some invisible force, flicked toward the glass-walled office across from mine. Jack Sullivan sat behind his desk, dark head bent, his broad shoulders stretching the fabric of his crisp white shirt. A tiny spark of something warm and forbidden flickered in my stomach before I ruthlessly squashed it. Nope. Not going there. Not feeling that.
“Are you even listening to me?” Emily nudged my arm, sloshing my coffee dangerously close to the lid.
“Martinez, homer, three games in and Knights are looking good,” I summarized, turning away from Jack’s office and heading toward my own. “I’m tracking.”
“Barely,” she scoffed, but there was no heat in it.
I pushed open my office door, grateful for the brief sanctuary it offered. The glass walls meant I was still on display. Like the zoo exhibit of “Female Sales Manager in Her Natural Habitat.” But at least here I could breathe for a moment before the day truly began.
Immediately, my eyes landed on the small square of yellow paper stuck to my computer screen and I sucked in a sharp breath. Forcing myself to be patient, I took my time dropping mypurse in the bottom drawer of my desk and taking my jacket off to hang on the back of my chair.
Then, with a slight tremble in my hands, I reached for the post-it.
The best views come after the hardest climbs.
I stared at the note for a long moment, feeling some of the tension from my mom’s phone call leaking away. I closed my eyes and said the words under my breath. The best viewsdidcome after the hardest climbs.
Opening my desk draw, I dropped the note in alongside the others, wondering for the hundredth time who in Catalyst Digital was leaving them. This made eight notes total, over the course of a few months. Always in that same neat, slanted handwriting. Each one made me feel seen in a way I wasn’t used to.
Emily had theorized that it was Darnell from accounting, but I’d ruled him out after catching him using Comic Sans in an email. The handwriting on these notes was too elegant for a Comic Sans guy.
“Ooooh, another love letter from your secret admirer?” Emily breezed in, a stack of papers in her arms.
I shut the drawer quickly. “It’s not a love letter. And we don’t actually know it’s an admirer.”
“Right.” Emily rolled her eyes and set the folders down on my desk. “Because people regularly leave anonymous notes for coworkers they feel absolutely nothing for. What does this one say?”
I told her.
“I fucking love that. Who around here would be capable of writing shit like that?”
“It could be Mrs. Gonzalez trying to boost morale.” I took a sip of coffee. “She did that seminar on positive workplace culture last month.”
“Mrs. Gonzalez from R&D who wouldn’t know your name if it were tattooed on your forehead? I don’t think so.” Emily perched on the edge of my desk, glancing out the glass walls of my office to the sales floor where my team was starting to trickle in. “Besides, these started right after the new executive arrived. Coincidence? I think not.”
I rolled my eyes. “Not this again. Give it up, Em! There’s just no way it’s Mr Sullivan.”
“Why the fuck not? He’s tall, broody, looks like he could bench press a small car? That’s exactly the type who’d be too emotionally constipated to just ask you out.”
“There are a hundred reasons why not. He’s our boss, for starters. And he looks at me like I’m a particularly confusing spreadsheet.” I turned to my computer, hoping to end this line of inquiry. “Besides, guys like that don’t go for girls like me.”
