Chapter 7: In Which Deadlines Are Met, Glances Are Stolen, and Friday Hurts a Little More Than Expected

The first week passed in a flurry of edits, rewrites, passive-aggressive comments, and uncomfortably charged silences.

By Wednesday, they had established a rhythm—Oliver brought structure, Lillian brought voice, and neither of them brought coffee for the other because this was not that kind of partnership.

They worked out of a spare conference room now unofficially dubbed the war room. Sticky notes lined the whiteboard. Pages were spread out like battle plans. The manuscript, a clever and occasionally melodramatic literary thriller by Avery Thorn, had become the shared mountain they were chipping away at—one snide comment at a time.

Their boss, Marla, had checked in on Thursday to review their progress. She raised a brow, flipped through the marked-up pages, and gave a noncommittal grunt of approval.

“You two actually haven’t killed each other,” she’d said. “Color me shocked. Keep going.”

And so they did.

By Friday, they were the last ones in the office.

Again.

The overhead lights hummed softly. Somewhere in the background, the cleaning crew had started vacuuming. It was nearly 8 p.m., and the rest of the publishing floor had long since emptied out.

Lillian was hunched over her laptop, muttering something under her breath that Oliver couldn’t make out—but he recognized the cadence. She whisper-talked when she was deep in thought, completely unaware of it. Just like she hummed 80s pop songs when she was trying to motivate herself. Just like she bit her lip when a sentence wasn’t cooperating.

Oliver had spent the week collecting details.

Not on purpose.

At least, that’s what he told himself.

But he noticed things now—things he hadn’t before.

The way she crossed her legs when she was annoyed, foot bouncing like a metronome. The way her eyes narrowed when something clicked. The way she held her pen between her index and middle finger like a paintbrush, even though she was editing, not painting.

She was precise. Fierce. Funny in ways that weren’t always meant to be funny. And maddeningly vibrant in a world he’d always experienced in grayscale.

He didn’t know when that had started.

Maybe the bar. Maybe before. Maybe the moment she challenged him in the elevator and refused to back down.

Or maybe it was this week—this endless, exhausting, strangely magnetic week.

“Crap,” she said suddenly, eyes flicking to the time in the corner of her screen. “I’m going to be late.”

Oliver looked up. “Late for what?”

“A date,” she said quickly, standing and stretching with a wince. “Blind date. Jane set it up weeks ago. I forgot it was tonight.”

A pause.

Oliver tried to keep his tone neutral. “Right.”

He should say something normal. Casual. Unbothered.

He couldn’t think of a single thing.

“I mean, it’s probably a disaster waiting to happen,” she added, grabbing her bag. “I’ll give it thirty minutes, max. And I’ll sit near the door so I can fake a work emergency if necessary.”

He nodded. “Good strategy.”

There was a hesitation in her step—brief, but real. She lingered for a beat longer than she meant to.

“I don’t even know why I told you that. I guess... just making conversation.”

“Sure,” Oliver said, keeping his expression carefully blank.

She gave a tight smile. “Night, Hollingsworth.”

“Good luck, Stewart.”

He watched her leave. The soft click of the door felt louder than it should have.

He told himself he didn’t care.

That he had plans too.

That this meant nothing.

But he stayed seated for another minute.

Two.

Three.

Then he picked up his phone.

No new messages.

He scrolled to the chat app and checked the thread.

FitzWill:

Ever feel like you’re trying to play it cool but every choice makes it worse?

It had been a week.

Still no reply from LizzyB.

He stared at the screen, thumb hovering.

Maybe she was busy. Maybe something had happened. Maybe she’d ghosted him.

Maybe she was sitting across from some smug guy with good hair and a rehearsed laugh.

He didn’t know why the silence bothered him more tonight.

Maybe because someone else was walking out of a room and not looking back.

Maybe because he wanted her to.

—

The restaurant was trendy in that “we-only-seat-people-who-look-good-under-ambient-lighting” kind of way. Her date was already there when she arrived—well-dressed, a little too eager, but undeniably attractive.

His name was Mason.

He stood when she approached. Smiled like they were old friends. Ordered her favorite drink without asking—Jane had clearly given him a detailed dossier—and complimented her blazer, her eyes, her smile.

He was witty. Charming. Told the kind of stories that made other tables eavesdrop. He listened. He laughed in the right places. He asked questions.

He checked all the boxes.

And Lillian smiled. She answered. She made a few jokes that landed. She even flirted—lightly.

She was trying.

Really.

But halfway through the appetizer, she caught herself staring at the flickering candle between them, her mind drifting to a different room, a different table, a man with tired eyes and rolled-up sleeves muttering something dry and clever under his breath.

Oliver.

She shook it off. Refocused. Tried again.

“So,” Mason said, gesturing with his glass, “what’s it like working in publishing? It sounds very... sexy and dramatic.”

She laughed, but it came out forced. “Mostly it’s red pens and coffee breath. The drama depends on the author.”

He leaned in, grinning. “Are you the kind of editor who makes writers cry?”

She hesitated. “Only when they deserve it.”

He laughed. She smiled.

It was fine.

Everything was fine.

And yet, her brain kept tugging her back—to Oliver leaning back in his chair with that slow, skeptical arch of his brow. To the sound of him uncapping a pen like it was a judgment. To the strange, quiet comfort of their bickering, which felt weirdly... safe.

She took a sip of her drink and tried to focus.

But Mason’s voice was blending into the background.

Mason was... great. A walking dating app success story. Tall, clever, emotionally available, if a little self-congratulatory.

And yet all she could think about was Oliver Hollingsworth.

Still at the office, probably. Still hunched over a red pen and a glass of something too strong. Still silently judging the Oxford comma with religious fervor.

And still—against her better judgment—under her skin.

She tucked her hair behind her ear, smiled again, and pretended she was fully present.

But all she wanted was to rewind two hours. Stay in that quiet conference room. Whisper another snarky comment. See if he’d finally smile without pretending not to mean it.

Just one smile. Just one moment of not pretending.

Instead, she lifted her glass and clinked it against Mason’s with a practiced grin.

And wondered when the hell things got so complicated.