The entire office space exemplifies feng shui, open, airy, light, except for a cramped coffee station in the back that’s cluttered with ten different espresso machines Brandon keeps ordering for reasons I still don’t understand. There are two hallways on either side of the employee area, one that leads to a storeroom and bathroom, and on the other side, the conference room where I’m sure management is waiting for me.

Directly behind Hannah, all of the employees are spread out, no cubicles, all open space with individual desks. Even the team leaders sit among the rest of the crew because they believe in putting everyone on equal footing, regardless of title.

I’m not a junior marketer, I’m a “student” marketer. Because according to Blade, we are all learning. It’s crap, but whatever.

“Hannah, please.” I don’t want to beg, but I have no other choice. “Can you tell the team that I’m here and I’ll be in shortly?”

She purses her enhanced lips, nose wrinkling in disdain.

Oh no, does my hand . . . smell? I sniff the brown gook and she glares at me like I’ve started licking the desk in front of her.

“I’m not your secretary. Tell them yourself.”

Hannah has never been my biggest fan, but she’s been especially rude for the past few months. I’ve racked my brain to figure out what I did, what stupid thing I might have said, and while there are many options, I still don’t know what her deal is and I haven’t asked. I hate confrontation with anyone, but with Hannah, who’s naturally aggressive? I would rather rub naked against splintered wood.

Presley, another student marketer who has only been here a few months, pipes up from behind her. “I got it, Jane. You look like you need a sec.”

Relief and nerves make my voice quiver. “Thank you, Presley.”

She nods and strides away toward the hall to the conference room, her dark ponytail swinging behind her.

In the bullpen, Mark is tossing a stress ball back and forth with Brandon, brainstorming ideas for a campaign. He catches my eye and gives me a wink.

Face heating, I force out a weak smile, then race to the restrooms, running through a list in my head of what I need to do. Wash my hands first and foremost, fix my hair, take some deep breaths—“Oh!” I collide with someone coming around the corner. My hand lifts during the impact, which means—the brown gunk on my hand is now on whoever I just ran into.

“Oh no.”

Alex. It had to be Alex.

Strong hands grip my arms in a steadying hold. “Jane. Oh. What is this?” He’s eyeing the brown spot on his worn-out Led Zeppelin T-shirt with a mixture of confusion and revulsion.

“BART incident.”