Page 26 of The Trouble with Love and Ink
“What’s going on over there?” Wesley asked, trying to keep a playful tone, but the annoyance sprang through like weeds between sidewalk cracks. “Care to share with the group?”
My mouth fell open. I tried to form an explanation, but all I could think about were the incriminating words I’d written, specifically how I’d described Wesley’s meeting. I waited for Beck to stand up and proudly read from his notebook, effectively dismantling my career.
Instead, he surprised me with his calm and cool reply. “I was just confirming with Emily that the deadline you had for the workflow is on the 29th.” He gave an apologetic smile. “Sorry, I didn’t want to interrupt the meeting to ask.”
The answer he paved was so smooth. It left no reason for anyone to question further. Wesley went back to the meeting, and I should have paid attention. Instead, I kept thinking how Beck would have had no problem pulling off this double-life thing that I struggled with.
To my relief, Beck didn’t try to pass any more notes during the meeting. Unfortunately, as soon as it concluded, he followed my pace packing up, matching the closing of my laptop, the capping of my pen, and the stacking of notebooks and papers. It was like the office version of synchronized swimming.
Everything was tit for tat, even our exit into the hall.
“Do you have a minute?” Beck asked, still matching each of my steps.
“Nope. I have a meeting with finance in five.”
“I was being polite by asking. You forget I have access to your Outlook calendar, Hailey.”
“Keep your voice down,” I said between my teeth, then forced a smile at Susan as she shuffled past us to get to her cube.
Beck huffed out a breath, then grabbed my elbow, once again—I noted—this time steering me toward a half-empty office. Someone from management was moving up a floor. Lucky them. Unlucky me. The door shut behind us, leaving me alone in a room with Beck, a filing cabinet, and three columns of boxes. Said filing cabinet and cardboard Jenga towers blocked access to the rest of the room, serving to cage Beck and me together. He may as well have pulled me into a supply closet.
“I won’t take up much of your time,” he said, placing his laptop and notebook onto the filing cabinet. The movement reminded me of when the earrings come off before a catfight.
Wanting to free my own hands, I put my things onto the lowest—therefore the least risky—stack of boxes. Only once my hands were free, I didn’t even know what to do with them. I tried sticking them in my pockets and then remembered. Oh yeah, I’m a woman. And therefore, pockets on slacks are a luxury I do not have. I ended up crossing my arms over my chest.
He slipped his hands into the pockets he actually had—point one for Beck and men everywhere. “What is going on?”
In the heavy silence, I tried to start the speech I had prepared for this occasion. I had an apology ready. And then I planned on assuring him that he didn’t need to worry his pretty little head about it any longer because I would be stepping down from the job—passing the torch to the next lucky calligrapher. But there was a hardness to his eyes that made me pause.
His shoulders and eyebrows lifted as if to say well, out with it. “Is this some sort of elaborate scam?”
Scam?
The word sent a jolt like ice water to my veins. Because scams were serious. Scams ended up on the news with the authorities involved.
An apology and stepping aside felt like an admission to guilt. And yes, I’d lied about my first name and pretended to be my sister, but it was nothing malicious, not to the caliber Beck had imagined based on how he’d cornered me in this abandoned office.
Just as quickly as the fear arrived, anger ate it alive. “Do you seriously think I spend my free time scamming people, Beckett? Full-time business analyst. Part-time villain?”
“I don’t know, Lane. I wouldn’t have thought that was your M.O. But it’s pretty weird that you are introducing yourself as someone else.”
“It’s just a first name, Beck. Ask her for the calligrapher’s last name. It’s still Lane.”
“So, when she sends the money—it goes to your account?” I paused, and it was just enough to convince him he was onto something. “Are you the person she hired?”
I stood there, frozen. I considered lying, but these were direct questions. A misstep and I’d get caught in the web I’d spun. But more than that, his eyes lasered onto mine. He would see the lie as soon as I uttered it.
He took a step closer. “Why are you pretending to be someone else?” His deep voice hummed along my bones and seeped into my veins.
To my credit, I didn’t back down from his intimidation tactic. Instead, I took my own step, shrinking the distance between us. “You are trying to protect your sister,” I said, matching his almost-whisper, “and I’m trying to protect mine.”
His eyebrows furrowed at that. “What do you mean?”
The truth will set you free, but it might also shoot you in the back and bury you in a shallow lot next to your ancestors. I proceeded with caution, not sure which way the wind would blow just yet.
“My sister, Hailey, owns Lettering Lane. She started this wedding but for . . .” I thought about her ditching Victoria’s wedding to spend her days tanning in a string bikini with Florida Man and landed on “. . . personal reasons, I’m stepping in to help your sister with her big day and save my sister’s business from tanking. This way, no one loses.”
“And you feel qualified to do this? Are you as good as your sister?”
