My phone buzzed against the polished wood of my desk, the vibration loud in the quiet of my office. I picked it up almost immediately — too fast, too eager — my heart skipping a beat before I even looked at the screen.
Then I almost rolled my eyes in annoyance.
It wasn't him. Of course it wasn't him.
Just a marketing update. A reminder about the new branch opening. Nothing important.
I tossed the phone back onto the desk and stared at it like it had personally offended me.
What was he doing?
Had he lost my number already? Had he thrown the napkin away the second I left? Was he ignoring me on purpose, hoping I'd take the hint and leave him alone?
Or was he just... busy?
He was a professional athlete. He had games and practices and press obligations. He probably didn't have time to sit around waiting for me to call.
But he could have texted. One word. "Busy." That would have been enough.
I was spiraling. I knew I was spiraling. I couldn't stop.
"You okay?"
I looked up. June was standing in my doorway, a stack of folders in her arms, her head tilted to the side like she was watching a very sad animal at the zoo.
"I'm fine," I said.
"You're staring at your phone like you're waiting for something"
"It's nothing important"
"Then why are you making that face?"
I made myself look away from the phone. "What face?"
"That face." She walked into the office and set the folders on my desk. "The face you make when you're thinking about something you don't want to think about."
June had been my personal assistant for three years. She knew me too well. It was her greatest strength and my greatest weakness.
"I'm not making a face," I said.
"You're definitely making a face." She pulled out the chair across from my desk and sat down, crossing her legs. "Are you sure you're not waiting for an important call or something?"
My pulse jumped. "What? No."
"You sure?" She raised an eyebrow. "You keep checking your phone these days. Like, constantly. I've seen you pick it up and put it down at least ten times in the last hour."
I opened my mouth to argue. Closed it. Opened it again.
Was I that obvious?
"It's nothing important," I said finally, turning back to my computer screen. "Just... waiting to hear back about something."
June didn't look convinced. But she was smart enough not to push.
"If you say so," she said, standing up. "The new branch reports are on your desk. The design team wants feedback on the holiday packaging by Friday. And your father called — he wants you to call him back about the gala next month."
"Of course he does," I muttered.
June smiled and left, closing the door behind her.
I stared at the closed door for a moment, then looked back at my phone.
Still nothing.
I tried to focus on work. I really did. I pulled up the reports June had left me. I answered emails. I reviewed the packaging mockups and wrote notes that I'd probably have to rewrite later because my brain wasn't fully engaged.
But every few minutes, my eyes drifted to the phone.
Nothing.
Nothing.
Still nothing.
I hate Rhett.
I know we hadn't spoken in years. I know I had no right to expect anything from him. I know I was the one who showed up unannounced and dropped a crazy proposal in his lap and then left.
But I thought everything was going so well. The banter, the cooking, the wine. The way he'd looked at me in the kitchen — like he was seeing me for the first time. The way he'd said my name.
He could still text or call me. Even if it wasn't about the proposal. Even if it was just to say "Hey, how's work?" or "Did you make it home safe?" or "I'm still thinking about what you said."
Anything. I would take anything.
Ugh. What was wrong with me? We hadn't seen or spoken to each other in years. Why did it matter now? Why did I care so much about whether he texted me?
There was no point in doing this to myself. He was either going to respond or he wasn't. Staring at my phone wasn't going to change anything.
I decided to stop thinking about him.
I turned my phone facedown on my desk and forced myself to work for the rest of the day.