That silent question still echoed faintly in Emma's mind: What is she doing here? This time ... this distance ... ?
"Miss Brooks?" Lucas's voice shattered the stillness, deeper than usual, unreadable. Like an ice pick to her eardrums.
"I ... I ..." Emma's tongue tangled. Her brain short-circuited. The Proposal? The email? Empty-handed! Anywork excuse felt laughably feeble. She could even feel the night security guard George's suspicious gaze crawling from down the corridor.
Explain. Think of something. Anything! Her inner voice screamed in desperation.
In those suffocating seconds, Emma's scrambled consciousness caught the faintest ripple - a ghost of emotion, not words, bleeding from Lucas. Not anger or mockery, but ... confusion? Almost imperceptible ... concern?
The sensation vanished before she could process it. But as George's flashlight swiveled toward her, Lucas spoke, voice flat as a steel sheet:"Proposal hit a wall?" He stepped aside, glancing at George. "George, it's fine. Miss Brooks forget some reference materials."
George grumbled "Alright, sir", and shuffled away, his beam receding. The corridor dimmed, bathed in warm office light and Luca's long shadow.
Emma's heart galloped, but Lucas's neutral alibi clung like a lifeline. She seized it, voice brittle:"Yes ... Mr. Whitley. About the like-shadow contrast, I suddenly thought of details ... need to check references." She gestured at her empty hands, burning with humiliation. "But ... I left my notebook at my desk."
Lucas held her gaze, eyes fathomless. As if peeling back her flimsy lie. Emma froze, bracing for exposure.
Checking references in pajamas?
A clear thought-fragment, laced with faint absurdity, punched into Emma's mind - sharper than before.
Her cheeks scorched hotter, wishing herself vanished.
Lucas merely twitched a brow, stepping aside:"Come in. It's cold outside." His tone stayed neutral, as if that mental jab was just another hallucination.
Like a pardoned prisoner, Emma ducked into Lucas's office, hugging the doorfame. Warmth hit her - scent of pine, leather, and lingering coffee. The space mirrored her afternoon visit: vast, spotless. Beyond the floor-to-ceiling window, Manhattan's neon river flowed across glass like an abstract painting. Lucas poured coffee at the counter:"Drink?"
"No, thank you." Emma waved frantically. She needed clarity, not more caffeine. Trapped at the conference tabe, she felt like an intruder. Forced her eyes to the whiteboard - post-it chaos, scribbled notes. In one corner, a rough sketch of brick-and-silk contrast bore the note "Hopper? Shadow slicing?" - the very concept she'd "eavesdropped" earlier!
Her heart skipped. It's real! All of it!
"Reference materials at your desk?" Lucas's voice came from behind her. "Since you're here ... " He faced her, gray eyes sharpening. "Tell me your 'sudden detail'. About shadow slicing and urban texture." He gestured to the board. "Your take."
Emma's stomach dropped. Dead. No ideas - just a lie! Her mind buzzed with "pajamas-distance-thoughts", not concepts. The air thinned, suffocating.
She's lying.