“Would you want to go on a date with me to my office? Help me file some documents?” he asked.

Oh god, was he flirting? Or was he annoyed? It was so hard to tell with this one. There was something about his words that always felt so deliberate, pointed, lobbed to land directly inside me.

Then he raised his brows and gave me my answer: Flirting. Definitely flirting. There was that flutter again.

“I’m sorry. I wasn’t trying to pry into your personal life,” I said, backtracking to avoid encouraging that springy feeling in my chest. Get it together, Franny. You need this job. Be professional! “But our spaces tell a story—not just to us, but to anyone who walks into them.”

“I was joking,” he answered, his smile sheepish. “I, uh, I guess I want other people to walk in here and…get a sense of who I am.”

“And who’s that exactly?” I leaned forward in my seat, genuinely curious.

Before he could answer, the elevator dinged, the sound slicing through whatever tension this conversation was bubbling up between us. The doors opened, and out walked the kind of woman who made me do a double take when I passed her on the street: warm brown skin, enviable thick curls, giant tortoiseshell glasses, a killer red lip. I made a mental note to ask her who made that lip color. I needed it. Cleo and Lola needed it. Hell, every woman needed a red this good.

She was decked out in a black silk jumpsuit and sky-high black clogs, but the simplicity of it all made her seem incredibly fancy. In one hand, she held a bag of crackers; a tote bag dangled from the other. I wanted to be her best friend, and I didn’t even know her.

“Eleanor Lewis,” she said, bright and self-possessed. “Hayes’s cofounder. I hate the term ‘work wife,’ but that’s essentially what I am.”

“It’s nice to meet you.” Her handshake was firm and warm.

“He told you this was my idea first, right?” she said, leaning in conspiratorially. “I don’t want him to get all the credit for hiring you.”

I laughed at this; I liked her instantly.

Hayes stood and offered her his seat. “I was going to give you all the credit, El,” he said.

She waved him off and tucked the crackers into the giant tote—a creamy, soft leather—and dug around, yanking out an ultrasound picture, shoving it toward Hayes. “Look at this cute little alien face.”

Hayes lit up in a way I hadn’t seen before. Genuine excitement and joy flashed across his whole body all at once. Brows relaxed, jaw unclenched, shoulders back. “Shit, El,” he said, grabbing the strip of images out of her hand. Smiling. “Look at that. Beautiful.”