Chapter 7 The Art Of War (Over Coffee)

Monday mornings were Clara’s personal brand of hell, but today? Today was war. She walked into the building like a woman on a mission, which she was—Operation: Avoid Julian Nightingale Until the Heat Death of the Universe. Unfortunately, the universe disagreed. “Miss Bellamy,” a smooth voice greeted her as the elevator doors opened. She did not sigh. She did not scream internally. She absolutely did not look at him. “Julian,” she replied without turning. “Still allergic to humility, I see.” “Still pretending sarcasm is a personality trait, I see.” She gave him a sugar-sweet smile. “Only when it works.” ⚡ They shared the elevator. Alone. He pressed the button for the 23rd floor. She stared at the door like she could will it to open faster. Julian leaned against the wall with that irritating ease only men with good hair and an inflated sense of importance possessed. “I take it the camping experience didn’t convert you?” he asked. “Unless the goal was to turn me into a mosquito buffet, no. But I do appreciate being blindfolded and shouted at by a woman named Stephanie. Really centers the soul.” He chuckled. “You were good at the maze.” “I was excellent at not dying. That’s where I shine.” He tilted his head, studying her. “You’re not like other journalists.” Clara raised a brow. “What, you mean I haven’t bribed your assistant for a quote or tried to dig up dirt on your grandfather’s oil tycoon origins?” “Something like that.” She let a beat pass. “I prefer a cleaner game. Besides, I already know Miranda’s the skeleton in your closet.” Julian’s expression flickered for half a second. Then the elevator dinged. He let her walk out first. “Careful, Clara. You’re starting to sound jealous.” She turned over her shoulder. “Of Miranda? Please. I had acne in high school too, I just didn’t become a Bond villain because of it.” ⚡ Julian couldn’t focus that day. Clara had burrowed into his brain like some kind of chaotic squirrel, disrupting every rational thought with her wild eyes and sharp tongue. He sat at his desk, reviewing reports, and still his mind drifted. He’d told himself she was an annoyance. But annoyance didn’t explain the way he’d panicked when she tripped on a rock during the trust walk. Or the fact that her laugh had burrowed under his skin like it belonged there. He hated not understanding things. He hated not understanding her. ⚡ Downstairs, Clara was dealing with a tragedy far more immediate. The office coffee machine had betrayed her. “What do you mean decaf only?!” she yelled into the pantry, arms raised like a dramatic soap opera star. Olivia popped her head in. “The new intern tried to fix it. He thought milk went in the water tank.” “I’m going to scream,” Clara muttered. “You can always get a drink from the café across the street.” Clara sighed. “Fine. If I get hit by a bus on the way, tell HR they’ll need to pay out my life insurance. And also that I died bitter.” “Noted.” ⚡ She regretted everything the moment she stepped outside. Because of course Julian was already at the café. And of course he saw her. And of course he was smiling. “That’s a new coat,” he commented as she joined the line behind him. “You keep tabs on my wardrobe now?” “Maybe. I have an excellent memory for things that look good.” She side-eyed him. “You must have amnesia when you look in the mirror then.” He laughed. Loud. And genuine. It annoyed her how much she liked the sound. He stepped aside after ordering. “Your drink’s on me.” “Why?” “Because I’m trying to annoy you in new, creative ways.” “Well, bravo,” she said dryly. “You’re doing great.” ⚡ Their drinks arrived. Julian didn’t leave. He sat at her table. Uninvited. “Do you just... exist to ruin my peace?” Clara asked. He took a sip of his espresso. “I’m just here to enjoy the company of a fellow caffeine addict.” She narrowed her eyes. “You are suspiciously charming today. Are you dying?” “I might be.” Something flickered in his eyes. A flash of melancholy. Then it vanished. Clara blinked. For half a second, she saw something older in him. Sad. Familiar. Like déjà vu laced with grief. She shook it off. “Well, if you do die, I’m not writing your obituary. Just so you know.” “Would you cry at my funeral?” “No, but I’d definitely clap.” He laughed again. And something in her chest tugged. ⚡ Back at her desk, Clara tried to work. But her mind was fuzzy. Julian was becoming a problem. Not the usual, suit-wearing problem. The heart-fluttering, cheek-heating kind. And she didn’t have time for feelings. Especially not for a man engaged to her high school nightmare. But even now, as she opened her emails, one thought buzzed in her mind louder than the rest: Why does he feel like someone I used to know?