I rub my temples, the intensity of what lies ahead hitting me. I’ve gone through a whirlwind of emotions today, ranging from elated and honored to horrified and nauseous. I like to think I’m good at what I do—my success rate and client feedback justifies that assumption—but self-doubt frequently lurks around, paralyzing me with fear.

I hate that slithery awareness of insufficiency. Of thinking I might not be good enough. Of competing against an equally qualified individual. Of all the negative thoughts that have trumped any positivity I’ve experienced the last six hours.

“Hang on. You said we. And us. Clarification, please?” Jack asks.

“I’m, uh, up for the position, but so is another person. It’s Emma. Emma Burns.”

“Em? No shit,” Noah laughs. “That’s kind of cute. It’s like the universe is begging you two to get together.”

“Whoa. What the hell are you talking about?”

“I’m a big believer in everything happening for a reason, Hen. Call it fate. Call it luck. But you two going after the same job? Sounds like a good story to me.”

“Are you implying I have—Jesus Christ, I can’t believe I’m saying this out loud—feelings toward Emma?”

Noah shrugs, unbothered by the raised pitch of my voice. “I’m not implying anything. Just an interesting observation.”

“Well you can shut up, because it’s unequivocally not true. I don’t feel anything toward her physically, and I would appreciate it if you would stop insinuating as much. We’re colleagues. Nothing more. That’s it.”

The exception to that statement is our moment in the hallway today after the meeting with Wallace. Me, pinned against the door. Emma, inches away, blinking up at me through long eyelashes. Something was different. There was a shift. A murmur traveled through the hallway, static energy cackling between us. I had the urge to pull her into my arms, bury my face in her golden hair, and hug her tight.

She was so close, I could smell her shampoo and soap. It was a delicious mixture of apples and sweet vanilla, the sweet scents tickling my nose and causing me to hastily flee in a panic, seeking refuge in my office the rest of the afternoon, afraid to get close to her again.

“Earth to Dawson.”

A napkin gets thrown at my face and I blink, the recollection of our encounter fading away into a hazy memory.

“Sorry. I’ll go grab us a fresh round. Be back soon.” Sliding out of the booth, I walk to the bar, waiting my turn behind a woman who’s leaning over the counter. I can only see the back half of her, but damn it’s a nice half.