Lori.

I'm trying not to roll my eyes as Marcelina nitpicks every single detail of our presentation. We've been at this for hours, and somehow her perfectionism is both annoying and oddly endearing.

The way her nose scrunches up when she spots something slightly off-center to what we discussed last night makes me want to laugh and scream at the same time.

"The font size on slide seven needs to be two points larger," she says, leaning so close to my laptop screen that her brown hair brush against my shoulder.

The faint scent of her perfume catches me off guard.

"The font size is fine," I mutter, crossing my arms. "What's not fine is how you've arranged the timeline graphics. They're too cluttered."

She whips her head toward me, eyes blazing.

"Cluttered? They're organized chronologically with a clear visual hierarchy—"

"They're suffocating the page," I interrupt, reaching past her to point at the screen. Our hands nearly brush, and I pull back quickly. "The design needs to breathe."

A heavy silence falls between us. She's looking at me like she wants to argue further, but instead, her lips twitch into what might be the ghost of a smile.

"Fine," she concedes, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "Show me how you'd do it."

For the next hour, we work in a rhythm that surprises me. When we're not bickering, we actually make a decent team. Her attention to detail complements is awesome, though I'd rather eat glass than admit that out loud.

By the time we present to Pierre, our project has transformed into something neither of us could have created alone.

The storytelling flows seamlessly, the visuals pop without overwhelming, and even the font sizes are perfect, though I maintain they were fine before.

Pierre leans back in his chair as we finish, and for a moment, my heart stops. His poker face is legendary, but then—

"Impressive," he says, nodding slowly. "Very impressive. The narrative arc is compelling and the overall concept..." He pauses, and I swear I can feel Marcelina holding her breath next to me. "It's exactly what we needed."

Relief floods through me, followed quickly by an unexpected surge of pride in our work.

I glance at Marcel, catching her doing the same, and for a split second, we share a look of pure triumph.

The moment is broken by my phone buzzing in my pocket. I excuse myself to take the call, stepping into the hallway where the air feels less heavy.

"Lori!" Zoey's voice explodes through the speaker. "You're never going to believe this!"

"Try me," I say, still riding the high of our successful presentation.

"I just landed the wedding planning gig of the century," she gushes. "Remember that tech billionaire who made headlines last month? His daughter is getting married in Paris – actual Paris – and they want me to handle everything!"

"Holy shit, Zoey!" I lean against the wall, grinning. "That's incredible!"

"I know! It's the ultimate dream gig. They're talking about flying in rare orchids from Thailand, having a ceremony at Versailles – the works. I'll be there for at least a month doing preliminary planning."

My heart sinks a little. A month without my best friend sounds rough, but this is huge for her career.

"When do you leave?"

"Like next week! Which means we need to celebrate ASAP. Clear your schedule for tonight. I'm talking champagne, dancing, the whole nine yards. No excuses!"

I laugh, already mentally shuffling through my closet for something party-worthy.

"Like I'd miss celebrating this? You're going to be planning the wedding of the year in the most romantic city in the world. We're definitely drinking to that."

"Perfect! I'll text you the details." She says and I can hear the smile in her voice.

Before I can say anything else, she hangs up, leaving me staring at my phone in mild panic about an outfit.

  I walk back into the conference room, where Marcel is carefully gathering her materials.

"Hey," I say, as quickly as I can and without thinking, I continue, "My friend just landed this massive wedding planning gig in Paris, and we're celebrating tonight. Want to come?"

Marcel scoffs, and I  watch as she continues to gather her things, my invitation hanging awkwardly between us.

Her initial silent rejection shouldn't sting as much as it does, but before I can brush it off, she pauses.

"Actually," she says, pulling her bottom lip between her teeth. "Why not? We did good work today."

The way my heart leaps at her change of mind is ridiculous. This is just a celebration for Zoey, nothing more.

Hours later, I'm starting to regret my impulsive invitation.

Zoey's giving Marcel the kind of look she usually reserves for clients she doesn't like. We're at our favorite bar, and the tension is thick enough to cut with a knife.

"So," Zoey says, swirling her martini, "you're the one who's been making my best friend's life hell."

"Zoey!" I hiss, but Marcel just laughs, the sound surprisingly light.

"I prefer to think of it as pushing her to excellence," she replies, taking a sip of her whiskey neat.

I've never seen her this relaxed, her usual blazer draped over her chair, the top two buttons of her silk blouse undone.

"Is that what we're calling it now?" I can't help but tease, and the smile she shoots me makes my stomach flip.

Three drinks in and it's all just chaos. Zoey's telling stories about our college disasters, and Marcel's actually laughing – not her polite work laugh, but real, head-thrown-back laughter that makes her eyes crinkle at the corners.

I keep catching myself staring at the way her throat moves when she throws back another shot, at how her fingers dance along the rim of her glass.

"Another round?" Marcel asks, already signaling the bartender.

Her words are starting to blur, and I realize she's properly drunk. Marcelina Navarro, the queen of control, is swaying slightly on her barstool.

Shocking.

"I think you're done," I say, catching her wrist before she can order more. Her skin is warm under my fingers.

"You're no fun," she pouts and I have to bite back a laugh.

Zoey raises an eyebrow at me across the table.

"Make sure she gets home safe," she says, and there's something knowing in her voice that I choose to ignore.

Getting Marcelina into an Uber is an adventure. She keeps leaning into me, her hair tickling my neck as she mumbles something about how my "creative chaos" actually improved our presentation.

"Address?" I ask, trying to focus on the Uber app and not on how she's practically nuzzling my neck.

"Mmm, Olive park," she says, then rattles off a number that makes no sense because Olive park is on the other side of town.

Twenty minutes later, we're standing in front of a modest townhouse, and Marcelina frowns. "This isn't my house."

"You don't say," I deadpan, already ordering another Uber. "Want to try again?"

This time she gives an address on Hillcrest and I should have known. When we pull up to the massive gates, I can't help but whistle.

The house – no, mansion – beyond is all modern angles and glass, probably worth more than I'll make in my lifetime.

"Of course you live here," I mutter, helping her wobbling form up the ridiculous driveway.

"Don't judge," she says, fumbling with her keys. "I earned every bit of this."

"I'm not judging," I say, and I mean it. The house fits her – elegant, intimidating, but probably hiding some warmth behind all that glass and steel.

She finally gets the door open but doesn't let go of my arm. "You know," she says, turning to face me. "you're not as annoying as I thought you'd be."

"Wow, high praise from the queen of perfectionism," I laugh, but my voice comes out breathier than I intended.

"I mean it," she insists, swaying closer. "You're... surprising."

For a moment, I think she might – but no, she's drunk, and I'm not going there. I carefully look away and I pull my arm from her grip.

"Drink some water," I tell her, making sure she's steady on her feet. "Take aspirin. You're going to hate yourself in the morning."

"I never hate myself," she says with drunk dignity. "I'm excellent."

I laugh. "Lets get you to bed."

She whines.

Something warm blooms in my chest. "Good night, Marcel."

I make sure to take off her shoes and tuck her in bed, I think she begs for me to stay but I know I can't. If I spend another second here, I know I'm screwed.