Lori.

The morning light cuts through the curtains, harsh and unrelenting, landing square on my face.

It makes you wonder where all the rain clouds are.

I groan and roll over, burying my head into the pillow. It’s not my pillow, though. My arm brushes against something warm, and suddenly I remember where I am.

Marcel.

She’s curled up next to me, her back to mine, the blankets tangled between us.

The faint scent of her perfume lingers on the fabric, something light and floral that seems entirely too delicate for her.

I blink a few times, sitting up slowly. My neck is stiff, and my shoulder aches from the cramped position on the couch earlier but it’s the best sleep I’ve had in weeks. Maybe months.

Marcel stirs, mumbling something under her breath before pulling the blanket tighter around herself. For someone who’s usually so composed, she looks almost childlike when she’s asleep. It’s...endearing.

I check the time on my phone, and my heart sinks. “Shit.”

We’re late.

“Marcel, wake up.” I nudge her shoulder gently.

She groans, burrowing deeper into the blanket. “Five more minutes.”

“No, we don’t have five more minutes. We’re late. We’ve got a meeting with Pierre today, remember?”

That gets her attention. She sits up abruptly, her hair a tangled mess around her face, her eyes still heavy with sleep. “What time is it?”

“Time to move,” I say, already on my feet. “You’re wearing yesterday’s clothes. I’ll grab coffee while you—”

“I can’t go to work like this.” She gestures vaguely to the rumpled shirt and pants. “It’s unprofessional.”

“Your clothes are clean. I did laundry last night. Remember?”

She narrows her eyes at me, like I’ve just suggested she wear a potato sack. “That’s not the point.”

“Then what is the point?” God, she's so grumpy and annoying in the morning.

She doesn’t answer, slipping off the couch and heading toward the bathroom instead. “You go ahead. I’ll meet you at the office.”

I sigh, rubbing the back of my neck. “Fine, but you owe me for this.”

“Add it to the list,” she calls over her shoulder, and I can practically hear the smirk in her voice.

Pretty bitchy.

The office is already buzzing when I arrive. People are shuffling between desks, clutching coffee cups and balancing files in their arms. I slip into the conference room, dropping my bag onto the table just as Claire from accounting walks in.

“Where’s Marcel?” she asks, raising an eyebrow.

“She’ll be here,” I say, brushing off the question.

Claire doesn’t look convinced, but she doesn’t push it.

The meeting is scheduled to start in twenty minutes, and Marcel is nowhere to be seen. I send her a quick text, asking if she’s on her way, but there’s no response.

It’s fine. I’ve covered for her before, and I can do it again.

Still, I can’t stop thinking about last night. The way she felt in my arms, small and warm, like she belonged there. I shake the thought away, focusing on the notes in front of me.

But the memory lingers.

And it's such a bad time to be thinking about a woman you can't shag!

Marcel finally shows up half an hour later, just as we are wrapping up the introductions.

She walks into the room like she owns it which is not a surprise.

She's wearing a black dress that clings to her hips in a way that’s almost criminal. Her hair is smooth and glossy, her makeup subtle but flawless. She’s polished, poised, and entirely unbothered.

It’s infuriating.

“Sorry I’m late,” she says, her voice smooth and confident. A glance slashing to her father before it lands on me. “There was a bit of a wardrobe crisis this morning.”

Why does that sound familiar? I'm certain she's used that line before somewhere and she doesn't even realize how lame it is.

I glance at her, and she meets my gaze briefly, her lips curling into the faintest hint of a smile before she turns her attention to the clients.

She’s good at this. Too fucking good.

The meeting goes smoothly, as it always does when Marcel’s involved. She’s charming and professional, hitting all the right notes with the MedVax's progress so far. By the time we’re done, they’re practically eating out of her hand.

As we’re packing up, she leans in close enough for only me to hear.

“Thanks for covering for me,” she says, her tone light and almost playful. Maybe a little flirtatious too?

I straighten up, shooting her a look. “You owe me for this. Big time.”

She just smiles.

Later, back at her desk, Marcel is the picture of composure. She’s typing away on her laptop, her focus unwavering. It’s like last night didn’t even happen.

But I can’t stop thinking about it. About the way she looked at me when I told her to get into bed. Her breath hitching as I pulled her closer to me.

And now here she is, acting like none of it mattered. Like she didn’t con me into cuddling with her and then disappear to put on that damn dress and act like she’s untouchable again.

A very smart woman, indeed.

“Lori,” she says, not looking up from her screen.

“What?”

“Do you have the finalized numbers for last week's outreach?”

I hesitate for half a second before reaching for the file on my desk. “Yeah. Here.”

She takes it without a word.

“Are you going to pretend this morning didn’t happen?” I ask, my voice low enough that no one else can hear.

She finally looks at me, her expression unreadable. “What do you mean?”

“You know exactly what I mean.”

For a moment, I think she’s going to deny it, to brush me off with some sarcastic comment or a change of subject. But instead, she leans in slightly, her voice soft but firm.

“Last night was...necessary,” she says. “But don’t read into it.”

I don’t know whether to laugh or be annoyed. “Necessary? That’s what we’re calling it now?”

She shrugs, turning back to her laptop. “Call it whatever you want, Lori. Just don’t make it a thing.”

But it is a thing. At least to me.

And judging by the way she avoids my gaze for the rest of the day, I’m not the only one who feels that way.