Chapter 4: In Which Coffee Is a Lifeline and Collaboration Is a Threat

Mornings were not Lillian’s strong suit. Especially not mornings that followed impromptu cocktails, lingering eye contact, and a vaguely soul-shaking realization that Oliver Hollingsworth might actually possess a human smile.

She arrived at the office seven minutes late, with a mild headache and an aggressively large coffee in hand. The elevator was as slow as her will to live, and by the time she stepped out onto her floor, her phone buzzed with a calendar reminder:

9:00 a.m. – Editorial Strategy Session: Stewart & Hollingsworth – Conference Room B

“Oh right,” she muttered to herself. “The torture begins.”

She walked past the break room and spotted him immediately—already in the hallway, already suited up like a Vogue cover story about publishing’s most infuriatingly composed man.

Oliver stood by the conference room door, flipping through a folder with one hand and sipping black coffee with the other. Because of course he drank it black. Probably thought creamer was a sign of weakness.

He looked up the second she approached.

“Morning,” he said, like they were coworkers who hadn’t spent the previous night silently observing each other across a crowded bar while attractive strangers threw themselves at them.

“Is it?” she replied, breezing past him into the room.

Inside, the table was spotless, the chairs annoyingly symmetrical, and the giant dry-erase board practically screaming for a petty doodle.

Lillian took a seat at the far end of the table. Oliver sat opposite her.

There were a few seconds of silence. Not companionable. More… Cold War.

She unzipped her laptop. He opened his folder.

“So,” she said, voice deceptively light. “Shall we begin our thrilling six-week collaboration? Or do you want to start with a blood pact?”

Oliver raised a brow. “I was thinking more along the lines of setting expectations.”

“Great. My expectation is that you stop mansplaining sentence structure.”

He didn’t flinch. “And mine is that you stop editing like every manuscript is a Regency novel.”

She smiled, sweet and dangerous. “I make no promises.”

Silence again.

From her peripheral vision, she could see him studying her. Not in a creepy way—worse. In an attentive way. Like he noticed things. Like he remembered things.

Lillian busied herself by clicking unnecessarily loud on her keyboard.

“I reviewed the manuscript this morning,” Oliver said eventually. “We should decide who takes point on what.”

She glanced up. “You’re not going to suggest a coin toss? Or arm wrestling?”

He blinked once. “We both know you’d lose.”

She nearly smiled. Nearly.

Instead, she reached for her coffee, took a long sip, and said, “I’ll take the first half. You take the second. We meet in the middle for any major rewrites.”

He nodded slowly. “Fine.”

Another pause.

Then—almost without meaning to—she asked, “Was that your girlfriend?”

Oliver looked up.

“At the bar,” she clarified. “The woman with the cheekbones and ice-queen vibes.”

“Claudia?” He blinked once. “No. Chaz’s sister.”

Lillian tried not to look relieved. She also failed.

Oliver smirked. “Why? Jealous?”

She scoffed. “Please. I was just worried your judgment extended to your personal life.”

He leaned back in his chair, watching her over the rim of his coffee cup. “And here I thought you were too busy flirting with Acoustic Playlist Guy to notice.”

“I don’t recall asking you to notice me noticing.”

“Unfortunately, I did anyway.”

The silence that followed was thick with something unspoken and annoyingly electric.

Lillian looked away first.

Oliver didn’t smile this time.

But he didn’t look away either.

—

The rest of the morning passed in clipped conversation, note-swapping, and occasional sarcasm.

By afternoon, they had fallen into a rhythm. Not comfortable, exactly, but efficient. Like two people who had agreed to work on opposite ends of a seesaw—balanced only when neither pushed too hard.

Lillian typed quickly, muttering the occasional editorial note under her breath. She edited with the focus of someone trying not to feel anything at all.

Oliver watched her more than he meant to.

She didn’t notice—too caught up in the task, too driven to prove him wrong. Or maybe just too determined to do the job well, regardless of who sat across from her.

By the time the clock edged past six, the office had thinned out. Most desks were empty. Most lights dimmed. Lillian packed up her laptop and drained the last of her coffee with the resigned sigh of someone who had lived a full lifetime in one day.

She stood, stretching slightly, her blouse shifting just enough for Oliver to catch the subtle line of her collarbone.

“Same time tomorrow?” she asked.

He nodded. “Same war zone.”

She smirked, slinging her bag over one shoulder and striding toward the door.

He watched her stop in the hallway—first at Dalia from marketing’s desk, then briefly at the interns’ cluster, then again near the break room. Always with a smile, always with a quip, always leaving people a little more awake than they’d been moments before.

She talked to everyone. So easily. Like the world was hers to navigate, and conversation was just another element she mastered without trying.

Oliver stayed in the conference room, fingers resting on the edge of his laptop.

He didn’t quite understand her. Not yet.

But it was starting to grow on him.

He didn’t stand. Didn’t move.

Just sat there in the low hum of the office after-hours, watching her laugh with someone over something inconsequential.

And he smiled.

Not the sharp kind. Not the guarded one.

Just a small, honest thing.

Brief.

But real.

—

[Group Chat: A Very Austen Affair]

FitzWill:

Ever feel like everyone around you knows how to be charming, and you're just... stuck at the loading screen?

LizzyB:

Yes. Constantly.

Especially at work. And bars. And anywhere with other people, really.

FitzWill:

There’s one person who makes it look effortless. Like conversation is an Olympic sport and they’ve already won gold.

I can’t decide if I admire it or resent it.

LizzyB:

Why not both?

FitzWill:

Exactly.

LizzyB:

It’s weird how attraction sneaks up on you, isn’t it?

One day someone’s a nuisance, and the next they’re…

well, still a nuisance. But hotter.

FitzWill:

Tragic.

Unfair.

Deeply relatable.

LizzyB:

We suffer.

FitzWill:

Silently.

Behind screen names.

LizzyB:

The most proper way to pine.

Very Austen-core.