Page 132 of Terms of Exposure
At twelve twenty-eight, I walked down the hall to Emma's office. Knuckles rapping on the door.
"Come in," she called.
Emma stood behind her desk, shuffling papers into a folder. She'd changed since this morning—not in clothes or appearance, but in energy. Calmer. Like Jennifer's decision had taken a weight off her shoulders.
I leaned against the doorframe. "Ms. Sinclair."
She looked up, and for a split second her whole face lit.
Then she caught herself, smoothing it out.
"Mr. Holt." Her voice was careful. Public.
"Can I help you with something?" she added, just loud enough to carry if someone happened to be passing in the hall.
"Just passing through." I stepped back, giving her space to exit. "Heading anywhere interesting?"
"Lunch," she said, casual and clear.
"Same." I fell into step beside her.
"Do you mind if I join you?" I asked, biting the inside of my cheek to stop my smile. "I hear the cafe downstairs has a perfectly mediocre chicken Caesar."
Her lips twitched. "Of course not, Mr. Holt. You're more than welcome to join."
A man in a suit passed us going the other direction and nodded politely. "Mr. Holt. Ms. Sinclair."
"Good afternoon," I replied.
We reached the elevator and stepped inside.
The doors slid closed.
Emma exhaled quietly. "That felt weird."
"Good weird or bad weird?"
"I don't know yet." Her eyes glinted with mischief. "Ask me again after the mediocre salad."
The café occupied a corner of Falkirk's ground floor—exposed brick and reclaimed wood, the kind of curated casual that cost a fortune to build. At twelve thirty-five, it was busy but not packed. A few clusters of employees at scattered tables. A line at the register that moved efficiently.
Normal.
Unremarkable.
Exactly what Jennifer wanted.
She ordered first. "Chicken Caesar. Dressing on the side."
"And for you, sir?" the cashier asked.
"The same."
Emma's brows lifted, reaching into her purse pocket.
I pulled out my wallet. "I've got it."
"You don't have to—" she pretended.
