Lori

I’ve been thinking about Marcel all weekend. No, fantasizing about her would be more accurate.

Even when Cathy had her tongue deep between my legs, all I could think about was Marcel. The insanely pretty woman who I cannot touch unless I have to play pretend in front of my ex boyfriend.

It's so annoying the rate at which I memorized every little thing she does.

And it had been haunting me.

Needless to say it's been playing on a loop in my head—the way she tucks her hair behind her ear, how her lips curl into that reluctant smile, the sharpness in her beautiful eyes that makes you feel seen too right and too much at the same time.

When I get to the office Monday morning, my heart is racing with anticipation and excitement. I even put on my best shirt—black, slightly fitted, the one Zoey says makes me look “dangerously hot” and pulled on black pants that make my legs look long and torn. I feel hot.

Not that I care about impressing Marcel or anything.

I walk in, coffee in hand, and immediately scan the room. She's the only person I'm interested in seeing before someone ruins my day.

She's not in the conference room and by the looks of it, it seems the meeting had already ended. She will probably give me hell for not attending the meeting.

I make my way to our office and the moment I crack the door open, there she is, sitting at her desk and She’s at typing furiously. Her brows are furrowed in concentration.

My grin widens but I have zero idea it's going to be wiped off in exactly a second.

“Morning,” I say, keeping it casual. I mean, it's not like I have to start jumping around for her to see that I'm super excited to set my eyes on her.

When my eyes meet hers, that stupid smile on my face falls because her gaze is nothing but ice.

“Morning,” she replies curtly, her tone as cold as the leftover pizza in my fridge.

That’s it. No sarcastic comment, no teasing smirk. Just morning—like I’m the delivery person or someone selling life insurance.

I blink, unsure how to respond. “Uh… how was your weekend?”

She doesn’t even look up. “Fine.”

“Fine?” I repeat, half-laughing to ease the tension.

“Yes, fine,” she says, her voice clipped.

And just like that, she goes back to her screen, fingers flying over the keyboard as if the fate of the world depends on her finishing whatever she’s working on.

I stand there for a moment, feeling like I’ve been dismissed. She doesn’t even glance back at me.

Okay. Cool. Guess we’re not chatting this morning.

I slink off to my desk, trying not to overthink it, but her frostiness stays with me. By mid-morning, I'm practically buzzing with anxiety.

Did I do something? Say something? Is she mad about Saturday?

The questions bounce around in my head, driving me crazy. I keep sneaking glances her way, hoping for a clue, but she's just typing away like nothing's wrong. My nerves are all over the place, and I can't shake this feeling that I've messed something up.

I replay the night in my head, trying to remember every detail. The drinks, the dancing, that moment when she watched me with that woman on the dance floor.

Could that be it?

The tension sits heavy in my chest, and by lunchtime, I can’t take it anymore. I grab my food and head over to her desk.

She looks up when I approach, her expression unreadable.

“Hey,” I say, trying to sound casual. “Got a minute?”

She hesitates, then nods, pushing her chair back slightly.

We walk to the break room, and I set my lunch down on the table. She crosses her arms, leaning against the counter.

“You didn’t call,” I say, cutting straight to the point.

Marcel looks at me, her face between blank and shock. “I forgot.”

“You forgot?” My voice pitches higher, and I realize I sound borderline hysterical. I take a deep breath, forcing myself to calm down.

How can she forget?

She shrugs, all calm and nonchalant. “Yeah. I forgot. It happens.”

Her indifference stings more than it should because I missed her so much and today is not going as I hoped it would.

“You forgot,” I repeat, quieter this time. She looks at me like I'm making a huge deal out of nothing and I have no idea why I keep saying that.

She doesn’t say anything, just looks at me like she’s waiting for me to drop it.

I let out a shaky laugh, shaking my head. “You don’t owe me an explanation or anything.”

She blinks, her expression still blank.

“I had a great time on Saturday,” I add, my tone lighter.

“No kidding,” she says flatly.

Before I can say anything else, she turns and walks away, leaving me standing there with my uneaten sandwich and a lump in my throat.

Looking back, I think she may have misunderstood me. I want to go back in the office and tell her that I meant I had a great time with her and not Cathy.

The rest of the day feels like I’m walking on eggshells. Marcel’s avoiding me—or at least, that’s how it seems. Every time I try to catch her eye, she’s looking somewhere else. Every time I think about saying something to her, I hesitate, because I feel like it I’ll make things worse.

It's all unbearable. I go over every interaction we’ve had, every word I’ve said, every move I’ve made. Did I push too hard? Was it the kiss? Or maybe the way I left on Saturday?

But the thing with Marcel is you can't know.

By the time the workday ends, I’m exhausted—not from the workload but from the constant overthinking.

As I pack up my things, I glance over at her desk one last time. She’s still there, her head bent over her laptop, completely focused.

Why won't this be over already?