In the Monday afternoon critique, I ended up in the front row, far from Logan. We’d fallen perfectly into the rhythm of compartmentalizing the office from personal. Here, I was Evelyn, a designer on his team in the running to be named the design department branch manager. At his place, I was Evie, his naughty girl who occasionally left her dirty dishes in the sink.
One more day. Jon would be in the office tomorrow, and it would be announced I had landed the position I desperately wanted. Then I’d be the one leading these meetings. He’d come a long way with his criticisms, but Logan asked my advice the night before. He was grateful to be passing the torch.
“There’s one more thing,” Logan said, when the final critique was over. “Hess Sports is planning another direct mail campaign. Who wants the project?”
I think if we could have put our fingers on our noses to signal “Not It,” we would have, to determine the poor soul who was saddled with this client. Hess was picky, ignored deadlines, and had no concept of how design worked. Earlier this year one of the designers had spent weeks on a tri-fold brochure, proof after endless proof, only to have Hess tell us they wanted to change to a postcard, and all of the text on the double-sided brochure needed to fit on a tiny, one-sided card. Oh, and not look like garbage.
“Someone needs to jump on this grenade,” Logan said.
People were suddenly fascinated with the tabletop in front of them. I chewed back a groan and swiveled in my seat. “I’ll take it.”
He nodded. “Thanks, Evie.”
For a moment, no one moved. Then the collective mouth of the design team fell open upon hearing my nickname, the one none of them had heard before, come out of Logan’s mouth.
“Evelyn,” he corrected, but it was far too late.
My face heated red despite my every effort to stop it, and each pair of eyes in the room turned to me. I turned as well, facing front and swallowing hard, feeling their gazes boring into my back. I took a deep breath and prayed it wasn’t as bad as it seemed.
“All right, thanks everyone,” he mumbled, snapping shut his MacBook, and fled from the room.
It took Jamie two seconds to make it over to me. “What was that about?”
“Hmm?” I pretended to be clueless. Debbie lingered nearby.
“Logan just called you Evie. Like you two are friends or something.”
I shrugged and pulled myself to my feet, but Jamie stood in my way. The expression on her face widened with surpris
e when my denial wasn’t immediate.
“Oh my god, are you two—?”
“No,” I said. It came out too quickly. “I heard he has a girlfriend.” Not a lie, since I was so terrible at telling them.
“Yeah? I hadn’t heard that. What department does she work in?” Jamie asked and Debbie slid closer, giggling.
I blinked. “What’s that mean?”
“You know, how he gets around.” The confused expression on my face prompted Jamie to clarify. “He’s slept with half the accounting department, Chloe in PR . . . I think someone else too—”
“That administrative assistant who was here last year,” Debbie chimed in. “She had that southern name?”
“Oh!” It was like a light bulb went off in Jamie. “Scarlet.”
My stomach churned. I didn’t want to hear any of this. “No, I hadn’t heard.” Definitely not a lie. I did my best not to look upset when I pushed past them and went to my desk.
That’s what the text message he sent me said. I responded instantly:
At four, Logan dropped the project folder for Hess Sports on my desk, hardly uttering a word, and I didn’t acknowledge his presence, but it didn’t matter. The rumor mill was in full force.
Jamie flitted over to my desk. “There is so something going on with you two,” she said, smug. “Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me.”
I wouldn’t have believed her no matter what, but watching her head straight for Debbie’s desk? That girl had no shame.
chapter
TWENTY-FOUR