The question waxed and waned through my head for the rest of the afternoon, through my dreams. I was relatively confident that I'd kept all my research into Crestline Developers and their larger parent company to the privacy of my home server, but could I have slipped up? It would be easy for someone to throw a key logger on a work computer, right? I'm not a tech novice, but I'm no expert. I can't be completely sure that I haven't left some kind of digital breadcrumb behind.

As I tossed and turned in my bed, too hot for even a sheet, I tried to calm my racing thoughts. Somehow, after rearranging all the pillows and blankets into spots where they weren't irritating and itchy, I'd managed to fall asleep some time after three.

In the light of morning, I convince myself that all the paranoia is ridiculous. Built from accumulated sleep debt and misplaced anxiety and an overactive imagination or something, but not real. Crestline isn't coming after me.

Still, I get dressed like someone bracing for battle—designer blouse, high-waisted slacks with a crease so sharp it can cut glass, hair twisted tight... the whole corporate warrior package.

The office is so aggressively normal. I couldn't find subterfuge even if I tried. Not that I'm looking. Because I am not a crazy person. I am Rhea Dawson, normal and rational paralegal clinging to this paycheck so that I can keep paying off debts whose interest never seems to let the number go down.

So I answer emails. I file documents. Make copies. Draft correspondence for Hughes, which he'll just inevitably sign without reading. I ignore the forgotten granola bar wrapper in the break room sink, pour out the stale coffee that's been sitting in the pot for who knows how long, debate which flavor of energy drink I should chance stealing from the fridge. I research some minor zoning litigation for a client I don't care about. Pretend I hadn't spent my night defending myself against imaginary monsters.

Around noon, Harper pokes his head into my office, an espresso in one hand and something shark-like in his smile.

"You've been quiet today," he says with a smirk. "Are you sick or something?"

God, I want to punch him.

"I'm fine, Andy," I say, barely glancing up from my screen.

He lingers. Of course he does. He's the worst. "I only ask because Hughes got a strange phone call this morning."

My mouth dries out instantly. I know Andy is trying to bait me. He can't know I've been spiraling over Crestline. Because how could he know? Did Cassie mention something?

"Hmm." I aim for bored and type gibberish just to look busy.

Andy leans against the door frame, examines his nails.

"Sure," he says. "Did you really tell Hughes you were thinking about finishing your degree?"

Whiplash. Irritation flares.

"What do you want, Andy?"

He grins. "Just making conversation," he says innocently, which means he absolutely is not. "It's just—people talk, you know? And you've been acting a little..." He rolls his hand in a lazy circle, as if it'll help him find the right word. "Off."

"I'm tired." I say flatly. "Like every other underpaid paralegal who works here."

He chuckles, pushing off the frame. "Right. Of course. Just—if you're planning on jumping ship, maybe give Hughes a heads up? Wouldn't want to get slammed with an ugly non-compete."

The smile he tosses over his shoulder isn't friendly. I try to recall every word I've said to Hughs, Harper, Cassie... since this whole Crestline mess started. Because Andy Harper doesn't do subtle. That's not his style. Andy is reckless, aggressive, desperate to prove himself. He is hungry to have his name on the door of this shitty firm in Jackson because he doesn't have the imagination to dream any bigger.

I force myself to take a breath. To delete the nonsense letters on the motion I was drafting. Andy is a toad, I remind myself. He cannot hurt me. This is just the baseless paranoia that's making my skin feel too tight, the air feel thin and hot. I want to rub off all the makeup—or was it war paint?— that'd I'd painted across my face this morning. I want to crank the thermostat down ten degrees, because, damnit, am I sweating? Ugh.

Maybe I am sick. My brain certainly feels like it's melting.

The sudden prick of tears behind my eyes catches me off guard. For one terrifying moment, I nearly cry at my desk. Furiously, I swallow it down. Whatever this emotion is—grief, sorrow, guilt, loneliness—I don't have time for it. I can't afford to be soft. I squeeze my eyes shut for a second, shove the heels of my palms into them until starbursts flare in the darkness. Just breathe. Just function.

A notification pings. The moment passes.

I glance over the email. Open the document. Log the details in the billing system, schedule a follow up, draft a few bullet points... I do everything a good little paralegal should do. And I do it all with the blank, automaton expression of someone who is completely and utterly fine.

And I stay fine. Wednesday. Thursday. Friday. While Andy insinuates what a shitty lawyer I'd be. While Hughes tears apart every draft I send him. I'm fine all weekend as I scroll law school prerequisites. Fine as I write and delete an email to a counselor I knew back at University of Wyoming. As I rearrange my furniture. Online shop for hiking gear. Drive to work Monday. Power through the week, ignoring the whispers. The pointed states.

By Friday, I tell myself I'm adjusted. That I'm used to the lack of sleep, the ever-present heat writhing under my skin, the strange inner tug pulling tight by the day. This is the new normal, I tell myself. And I am fire.

I open the motion I've been drafting. Read it. Re-read it. Edit a sentence. Delete a paragraph... add the paragraph back in. Despite my assertion that I am okay with this new normal, it feels like I'm vibrating out of sync with the world around me. Like any second, I am going to short-circuit.

Hughes comes in at one point to bark about how my case notes are garbage. A secretary drops off a box of discovery—Hughes wants it summarized. Yesterday. Andy decides to hover around around after that, throwing snide comments. I can't tell if he's trying to insinuate that I've been helping the Moran locals, or if he's just threatened by the thought of me actually becoming a lawyer. I promise myself I will quit if the door becomes Hughes and Harper.

I blow off Cassie's suggestion of lunch, determined to power through this workload. Usually, I don't mind working through the weekend, but all I want to do is turn off my phone and rot in bed.

Cassie, undeterred, makes an offering of iced coffee a few hours later. I refuse, afraid that any more caffeine will make my heart explode. I know I come off ruder than I mean to, but my control is wearing thin. My skin feels like it's shrunk two sizes, like I need to unzip my body and step out it.

As she retreats, I wonder if I should have just agreed to a caffeine-fueled all-nighter to get through combing this giant haystack for a hypothetical needle. Or at least begged for help. If not with the discovery, than for some suggestions of how to deal with Andy fucking Harper and the office gossip he is not so subtly starting.

I am almost grateful when, thirty minutes later, she brings me back some sort of iced fruit drink and a sympathetic smile. My normally organized desk is a mess of files. As if I'm filled with static electricity, I swear my hair is breaking loose of the claw clip twisting it back

"Morningstar, huh?"

I start to nod, but stop myself. Like lightening, I realize how I can get Harper off my back. It is insane, but my mouth opens before I can stop myself.

"Personal life," I say instead. I don't want any more gossip about my work. I don't want anyone looking into what projects I've been working on. Gossip regarding my non-existent social life, my secret hours outside the office, is safer.

"Oh!" Cassie brightens like I've offered her the world. "Spill! Is it your secret boyfriend?"

I roll my eyes at her, pausing to sip. The drink she brought me is disturbingly sweet.

"I don't have a secret—" I start, but then I think better of it. "Okay, I guess I have a secret guy."

I want to correct that it's really more of a secret mountain-man, but I refrain from the extraneous detail. Cassie's grin is all cat-got-the-cream satisfaction.

"I knew it!"

The look I give her back is somewhere between exhausted and wry. "He's not into me."

Cassie scoffs. "Please, Rhea."

"I'm serious." And, surprisingly, I am. Making this calculated gossip a partial truth wasn't my plan, but I can't seem to stop myself. As if Cassie, self-proclaimed expert in romantic relationships, will be able to understand why Beau Forrester is not into me. As if once I lanced this poisonous truth boil, the words won't stop coming. "We had a cute little date—his idea—and then he didn't—" I pause, and I am stunned that I'm blushing, "he didn't kiss me."

Cassie's eyes are so wide with delight and shock and validation that I wonder if I've short-circuited her brain. She slides into one of the arm chairs.

"He didn't kiss you?!" It's a half-hiss, half-shriek. The office chatter, the clatter of typing grinds to a halt.

I shake my head slowly, suddenly regretting this entire plan. It's going to be far too successful. "Nope."

"Okay, but like—did he try to kiss you and miss? Was there an almost? A lean in? A romantic hug?"

I am too embarrassed to admit that he pulled back. "No lean. Nothing. We talked, we laughed. Then he walked me to my car and told me to take care."

"Ew, like he was your father?"

I grimace. Cassie lets out a strangled noise and leans back, covering her eyes. "Rhea. You are telling me that you—hot, smart, emotionally unavailable in the fun way—went out with a man who voluntarily opted out of kissing you and what... waved goodbye at the end of a date?"

Fuck. It sounds even worse when she says it. "That's what I'm telling you."

"No wonder you're having a rough week. That's terrible. I mean, is he shy? Is that a thing these days? Like maybe he's a slow-burn kind of guy. Repressed. Tragic back story. Did you check for hidden trauma?"

I laugh. A true, surprised laugh. "I didn't flip him over and look for a content warning, if that's what you mean."

Cassie sips her coffee with a contemplative hum. "Ok, are you gonna see him again? Is he hot?"

The question twists my stomach. The first one, not the second. Because I do want to see him again, and I'm terrified of seeing him again. "I don't know."

"Ok, then call him!"

"Cassie," I groan.

"Rhea," she mimics back. "You only have so many hot years left! And then you'll end up like me with a hot guy that becomes your chunky husband and a couple of kids and a pooching belly that you can never seem to get rid of. Enjoy your hot guy. Take a chance."

I pause. "I never said he was hot."

She smiles wickedly. "Please, bitch, you're shallow as a puddle. He's hot."

"I am not," I laugh. It feels really good. Like my skin isn't shrinking around me. Like I can take a full breath. For a moment, I swear I smell pine and sunshine, but then there's only the scent of saccharine strawberries wafting from my drink. I sigh. "Ok. Yes. He's hot."

"Thank you. And you want to see him again," Cassie continues. "So just call him. You don't need a grand speech or anything. Just tell him what you want. Maybe he was nervous. Maybe he was playing it cool. Maybe telling a sexy woman to drive safe is his kink."

"And if he says no?"

"Then he says no. You move on. You love again."

"Thanks, Dr. Love," I say, rolling my eyes.

"Anytime. I'll invoice you."

We fall into an easy silence as Cassie helps me sort the files on my desk, making some notes in her looped hand-writing. Two people make the work go quicker, and after the sugar bomb of the pink drink, my brain seems less erratic. I wave Cassie off once the sun starts to set, and continue on my own until the the box is empty and my notes are compiled. I turn to type up everything I've jotted down, but pause at the little sticky note Cassie left on the keyboard.

CALL HIM, COWARD 💋

I stare at my phone, sitting innocently on my desk. It would be easy to call Marcus and ask for Beau's number. It would be safer, though, to just delete it and remove the temptation. To be done with this mess. To move on. Before I can think better of it, my thumb is hovering over Marcus's contact info.

I don't call him.

But I don't delete it either.