Broken Rules

Chapter Thirty Eight

"I think the first headline sounds better to me than the second," James Foster, the copy editor, remarks, pushing up his thick clear-framed glasses.

"No the second one sounds better," I counter, leaning in to reevaluate the headlines.

He taps his pen on his desk, humming softly before questioning, "But doesn't it come across a bit like a sexual pun?"

"That's kinda the point, James," I say just as the glass door clicks shut behind me.

We both turn, and my eyes inadvertently lock with Wells's. They widen in surprise before I hastily turn around again, avert my attention, trying to focus back on the headlines I was discussing with James.

Shit. I briefly squeeze my eyes shut before turning my attention back to James. I take a deep breath, attempting to steady myself, absently rubbing my lips together.

I came in here to hide from Wells. I had hoped I could manage seeing him today, but the moment I stepped into that conference room, and felt his eyes on me, I knew it was going to be difficult. I refuse to let myself be so affected by him. I told myself of no flutters, no butterflies in my chest, no heart-skipping beats. And I tried my best to avoid eye contact, but when it happened, my stomach did cartwheels. Traitor.

Nervously, I start toying with the hem of my sweater. I even dressed in my best outfit for work. Muted green everything – pants, sweater, jacket. The color of rebirth and stress relief, or so Google says.

I'm not so sure if dressing my best was to convince myself I'm fine, especially after Ellis and Delaney pointed out the state of my attire yesterday, or more so for Wells to see me looking my finest, to show him that he didn't have in impact on me in any way.

It's proving to be harder than I thought.

Why can't he just leave me alone?

"Hey, Wells," James says, swiveling his chair to face him. "What can I help you with?"

There's a pause as Wells clears his throat, and I feel his eye burning into the back of my head. "I, um, I was going to turn these in," he stammers, and I catch a glimpse of his hand as it enters my peripheral vision, handing a small stack of papers to James.

My chest squeezes when his cologne drifts into my nose—that familiar scent of bergamot and amber. God, I even miss the way he smells.

"Oh, nice," James says, smiling as he looks up at him. "I'll work on these this afternoon."

"I was thinking, actually, you could start with this one first," Wells suggests, moving to the other side of James' desk, entering my view. "Andrew wanted to swap it out for tomorrow."

He shuffles through the papers on James' desk, with me on one side and him on the other, James sitting in between us, and I seize the opportunity to look at him while he is distracted, willingly subjecting myself to torture. He's wearing a light brown sweater, sleeves rolled up to his strong forearms, a collared shirt neatly tucked underneath, and his grey pants cling to him in all the right places.