Stuck with You (The STEMinist Novellas #2) by Ali Hazelwood

            I shake my head, confused. “What started?”

            “A bunch of shitty little things. The worst of which was targeting some of our clients to get them to switch to ProBld. I heard that some of their people were sniffing around our sites, too. Not exactly upstanding stuff.”

            I stiffen. This sounds . . . bad. Real bad. “Gianna, just to be clear.” I take a deep breath. “Last night I went out with Erik for dinner. So we . . . I guess we are chummy. But he’s great, and he wouldn’t do anything like what you mentioned.” I say it with more certainty than I should probably feel, given that I first met him exactly twenty-four hours ago. But it’s Erik. I trust him. “I don’t know what the partners and the higher-ups are doing at ProBld, but I’m sure he’d never condone anything like that.”

            “Well, he is a partner.”

            I blink. “He . . . Excuse me?”

            “Erik is one of the partners.”

            All of a sudden I’m feeling cold. And very, very nauseous. “He is a— What are you talking about?”

            “You said you went to dinner with him. Are you telling me he didn’t mention that he’s one of the founding partners?” She must read the answer on my face, because her expression shifts to something that looks a lot like pity. “He started ProBld right out of school with two of his buddies. And the rest is history.”

            “I’d love to poach you . . . I’ll pay you more. Name a figure . . . I’m very open to negotiating.”

            “Wait—you?”

            “ProBld.”

            “Does he know you’re an engineer?” Gianna is asking.

            I clear my throat. “Yes. I told him I worked for GreenFrame.”

            “Before or after he asked you out?”

            “I . . .” That wasn’t the reason. It wasn’t. Can’t have been. “Before.”

            “Oh, Sadie.” Same tone as before—now with more pity. “But you didn’t tell him anything specific about our projects or strategies or clients, right?”

            “I . . .” I massage my forehead, which suddenly feels like it’s about a second from exploding. “I don’t think so.”

            “Did he ask about anything?”

            “No, he . . .”

            Yes. Yes, he did.

            I can clearly see him, sitting across from me at the restaurant. His almost-smile. His neat, voracious way of eating.

            How did it go, by the way? . . . Your pitch.

            Who’s the client?

            So you got the project?

            “Sadie? Are you okay?”

            No. No. Nope. “I think . . . I’m afraid I mentioned something. About the Milton project. It came up in conversation, and I . . . I knew he was an engineer so I went into more detail than I should have, and . . .” Gianna covers her eyes with her hand, and I want the floor to swallow me whole. The addled, blissed-out feeling from this morning has dissolved, replaced with dread and a strong desire to puke my waffle all over the floor. “Gianna, I know it seems sketchy, but I don’t think Erik would ever do anything like what you mentioned. We really hit it off last night, and . . .” My voice dies down, which is just as well. I cannot bear to hear myself talking anymore.

            He didn’t say he was a partner. Why didn’t he? Why do I feel dizzy?

            “I hope you’re right,” Gianna says, even more of that unsettling compassion in her eyes. She pushes away from my desk, high heels clicking into her office, and doesn’t look back.

            I feel like I could cry. And I also feel like this is a stupid, nonsensical misunderstanding I’m going to laugh about. I have no idea which one is the right thing to do, so I try to focus on work, but I’m too tired, or preoccupied, or horrified to concentrate. At two p.m. Erik texts me: In meetings until 7. Can I take you out after? and I think about our dinner last night, in a restaurant where he usually brings clients. Am I work to him?