While I debated these quandaries, I added him to my contacts and thrilled at my growing coterie of quasi-celebrities I could call if I wanted. First Jo, now Shane. I knew it was silly, but I loved how easily they befriended me. I wanted to tell everyone online what nice people they were.
When the doors opened onto my floor, I intended to sit down and reply, but the minute I stepped through the glass doors, Byron emerged from his office.
“There you are, Layla. Can you come down the hall for the morning scrum?”
I glanced wistfully toward the kitchen. I needed a cup of coffee before I could use my brain, but Byron waited. So much for easing into the morning work.
Byron motioned for me to precede him and take a chair.
“Okay, now that everyone is here, let’s get started.” Byron opened the floor to a discussion of defects and other concerns, but my mind drifted back to that text message. My phone sat in my pocket, and I resisted the urge to pull it out and re-read the words Shane had sent. I tried to imagine him composing it. Where had he been so early in the morning? At breakfast? By default, I pictured him where I’d last seen him: sitting at the counter at Jo’s.
Maybe he’d been out on the street or at a coffee shop.
Maybe he’d been in bed.
My stomach went into freefall.
Why had he texted me? Should I read anything into it? I’d seen the way he looked at me. I didn’t think it was far-fetched to imagine he liked me for some reason.
I thought maybe I liked him, too. He’d been kind and funny, in a goofy kind of way. And shy. Adorably shy. So unlike Noah.
Noah was like an impossibly perfect diamond—shiny, pretty, eye-catching. Micah gave him a run for his money in looks, but he was taken. If Noah hadn’t been so rude to me, if he’d flirted with me, would I have missed Shane?
If Noah was a diamond, Shane was more like the sunrise, not just because he was all reds and oranges, like me. Always in the background, Shane was easy to take for granted. But like the sunrise, his complex beauty revealed itself when I stopped to look.
I could never say any of that to him. I’d have to keep it light and hope he wasn’t just being polite.
“Layla, I believe you had some ideas you’d like to share about automating the Twitter posts?”
Oh, yeah. Work.
I cleared my throat, nervous that they’d find my ideas weak or poorly conceived. “To start with, I’d like to create automated tools to pre-craft social media posts so authors will have an easier time sharing their articles on other platforms.”
I stopped talking and waited for any kind of reaction.
Nothing.
After a beat, I lost confidence in my own proposal and added, “It’s just a first step. Lots of blogging software already has similar functionality.”
Dave frowned and breathed in. I expected him to tell me he didn’t understand or say it wasn’t feasible, but he surprised me. “Yeah, our web presence is pitiful, and this seems simple enough. Could you write it up and set up a meeting? We can hammer out the requirements later this week and design within the month.”
“Sure.”
He gave me his full attention. “Let me know any other ideas you have.”
“Will do.”
Meeting adjourned, I bounced to the kitchen, eager to get some caffeine and settle in to write up the requirements for the proposal. While the coffeemaker sputtered out a dark, sludgy liquid, I sensed a presence behind me and spun around to find myself face to face with a dark-haired, dark-eyed, well-dressed Gabriel Sanchez who I recognized instantly from his byline. I started to speak, but my throat produced a sound eerily like the over-used coffee machine.
He must have taken my reaction as some kind of insta-lust because his lip curled into a mischievous grin. “Well, hello. And who might you be?”
I stuck my hand out. “Layla. Layla Beckett.”
Gabriel wrapped his hand around mine. His smile grew and he showed his perfectly white teeth. “Layla? Should I get down on my knees?”
I grimaced but forced out a pitiful laugh. “Heh.”
“I’m Gabe. Or you might know me as Gabriel Sanchez. I’m one of the head writers.” He leaned against the counter, looking as casual as one could in the middle of a brightly lit half kitchen.
The temptation to take a picture and post it in the forum