Page 31 of Crawl for Me

“Late?” I force an awkward smile. “No. Never. I’m pathologically early. Basically terminal.”

She stares at me, pencil hovering like she’s about to jot that down as an actual diagnosis, then pivots and stalks away.

My stomach flips hard enough I swear the coffee in it curdles. Conference room. Ten minutes. A whole table, the entire team, Marla breathing fire down our necks—and Sable, sitting right there. Right within reach. Which is its own kind of hell.

I grab my notes, shove my phone into my pocket, and cut through the bullpen, the clatter of keyboards and the drone of phones bleeding into the scrape of chairs and the murmur of voices already spilling upstairs from Conference Room Three. Coffee hangs thick in the air when I step inside, and the whole table’s alive with shuffling papers and low talk.

There she is.

Halfway down the table, wedged between Sam and Eleanor, sleeves shoved to her elbows, tablet glowing under her hand as she taps the stylus against it, head angled slightly toward Sam, laughing at something he says.

Don’t look. Don’t stare. Just—sit.

The chair screeches as I drag it out, and I drop into it fast, flipping my notes open, clicking my pen twice. My eyes skim the same line twice, three times, the words blurring to nothing.

And still—I can hear her. That laugh again, tugging at the corner of my focus until I glance up like an idiot. She’s covering her mouth with the back of her hand, head tipping forward, shoulders shaking.

Fuck. She’s so pretty when she laughs.

Rules. Office is off-limits. No staring, no wanting, no touching.

The door swings open and the air shifts as Marla steps in, clipboard tucked under one arm, glasses glinting in the overhead light.

“Alright,” she says, shutting the room up. “I want updates clean and quick—no fluff, no detours. If there’s a problem, I’d better hear it now before it blows up next week.”

My spine straightens on reflex, head nodding along as she ticks through the list. Voices rise and fall around the table—Sam outlining projections, Eleanor flagging ad spend, a low ripple of figures and dates. I jot notes, underline numbers, nod when the rest of them do, trying to look like the calm, collected account lead I’m supposed to be.

Marla’s eyes cut to me. “Noah. Rundown on your end.”

Right. My cue.

I clear my throat, slide my notes forward, and sit a little taller. “Of course.” My voice holds steady—thank God. “Engagement on Veylar’s pre-launch posts is tracking ten percent above benchmark. Conversion ratios are steady, but I’ve recommended staggered pushes to smooth the traffic spikes.” The words flow out smoothly, one after the other. “Projected rollout stays on schedule if approvals hit by Friday. If procurement lags, I’ve built a contingency that keeps us within one week of target.”

Marla doesn’t miss a beat. “And if they push approvals beyond that week?”

“Then we stagger creative in waves. Smaller spends, tighter targeting, keep the campaign warm until we get the green light.”

A low hum ripples around the table—pens scratching, chairs creaking as people jot notes. Marla nods once, already pivoting her gaze to the next person down the line, who immediately launches into a speech about procurement.

My phone buzzes once against my thigh.

I ignore it.

It buzzes again.

Who the hell’s texting me in the middle of the morning?

I keep writing, pen dragging figures across the page.

And then a third buzz, harder this time, insistent.

Maybe it’s an emergency. Shit.

I slide a hand under the table and fish my phone from my pocket, tilting the screen against my thigh.

Three new messages.

From her.