He looks up. “What?” he asks. “Would it make you more comfortable if I put this wet shirt back on?”

“Yes,” I say, shifting from foot to foot. “But actually . . . ugh. You’re gonna work the stain deeper into the fibers.”

I don’t want to offer to clean his shirt for him, because it’s not my job and he hasn’t asked me. If I know Nick the way I’m sure I do, he would never even think of asking me. But after years and years of doing the laundry for our family, of getting spaghetti stains out of my dad’s work shirts and the stink out of Milo’s gross gym clothes, I’m unable to watch someone poorly remove a stain.

“Just . . .” I walk over to him and yank the shirt off his desk.

“Where are you going?” he asks, but he doesn’t follow me as I step out of his office, because while we may not have a sign prohibiting shirtlessness, it would be super weird for the boss to waltz around the place half-naked.

The bathroom door opens as I’m nearing it, and I step in front of the one guy in line. “I’m sorry,” I say, an exaggerated look of apology on my face as I hold up the shirt. “It’s a hot chocolate emergency.”

He opens his mouth but has nothing prepared to counter my statement.

I run cold water over the shirt for a while, flushing out as much of the stain as I can. Then I fill the sink with soapy water and leave it there to soak for half an hour.

“The sink’s currently out of order,” I say to the guy who’s waiting when I open the door. “You can use the toilet, but don’t even think about washing your hands.”

“Um . . . I’ll . . . I’ll just wait,” he says, turning around and retreating to a table.

“Thank you!” I call after him.

I return to Nick’s office, but this time, I knock on the door. “Everyone decent in there?”

After a pause, I hear Nick’s voice, annoyed. “Yes.”

I slowly push the door open, peering around it.

“For God’s sake, come in,” says Nick.

“I want to be sure I’m not going to see an excess amount of flesh!” I say. “I’m an innocent girl, Nicholas.”

I finally see him, sitting at his desk, wearing a gray hoodie with nothing under it. It’s unzipped a little and I can see chest hair poking out. With his scruffy beard and his lanky body and the way his deep brown eyes are looking at me, he’s like a photo shoot for an up-and-coming stand-up comedian who booked his first part on a sitcom.

But I don’t tell him that. I say, “Your shirt’s in the bathroom.”

He leans forward. “You took my shirt so you could . . . leave it in the bathroom?”

I shake my head. “I mean, it’s soaking in the sink. Leave it in there for half an hour, then go wring it out, and take it home and wash it on cold. Don’t, under any circumstances, put any heat on it until you’re certain the stain is gone, otherwise you’ll set the stain.”