Page 47 of Caterina
I am not.
I am just irritated.
Deeply, persistently irritated.
And because I am irritated, I am aware of him.
That is all.
Marissa says, “Caterina?”
I realize she asked me something, and I missed the first half of it because Adrian has now crouched beside the door and appears to be examining the hinge.
Wonderful.
I recover instantly.
“Sorry,” I say. “The audio clipped for a second. Can you repeat that?”
She does.
I answer and keep going.
I do not look at him again for nearly two full minutes, which feels like a triumph until he crosses behind my desk, close enough that I catch the faint, clean scent of his soap or whatever he uses that makes him smell entirely too male for a Tuesday morning.
The smell that's now ingrained in my mind after the car ride this morning.
My spine goes straighter.
On the screen, Harold is still talking.
I nod at the appropriate time and say, “That’s why we built the reserve bands the way we did. If the first phase performs as expected, the second phase funds itself with minimal disruption.”
As I say it, Adrian stops beside my desk.
Not close enough to crowd me.
Close enough that I’m very aware of him.
I keep my eyes on the call.
From the corner of my vision, I see his hand move once, low and discreet, toward the edge of the desk.
He taps a single finger lightly against the wood.
Not enough sound for the microphone to pick up.
Just enough to get my attention.
I flick my eyes toward him for half a second.
He points once, two fingers, toward the window behind me. Then toward the other chair at the side of the desk.
Move.
That is what it means.
I stare at him.
