Love is Always Write Anthology Volume 2

they were goofing around but they thought it was cool, too. Now it would just feel like an imitation, so he heads toward Rittenhouse Square instead, slowing to a walk when he hits it, not crossing through but keeping to the edges until he reaches the coffee shop on the corner.
    He's there today, with a folded-over newspaper and coffee. Dressed for work in lean grey pants and a vest, and on anyone else it would be too much but on him it looks stylish and classy, and it makes Connor even more aware of the sweat running down his shorts and t-shirt. Not that Rafe Kinlan would ever notice him. They might work in the same firm, but this is pretty much the only time of day that Connor sees him.
    He pauses to stretch with his leg propped up on one of the benches that line the park, feeling a little like a stalker as his eyes slide over to the coffee shop window. Even through the glass he can see the careful angle of Rafe's grip on the paper, the long lean fingers. He figures it's the biggest cliché in the world to have a crush on one's boss, but Rafe's so far out of Connor's league that speculating is just part of this whole crush thing, like Connor running down to the same coffee shop every morning on the chance that he'll be there. In an hour they'll both be ensconced behind glass and metal, separated again by stairs and fifty-odd feet.
    Connor steals another glance then pushes off the bench. His knee twinges on the way back, but it's just a reminder. It feels pretty good today. He'll ice it when he gets home.
    ****
    " Davies. "
    Connor manages not to jump. Frank scares the hell out of him, honestly. He reminds him of his high school coach, which he thinks should feel familiar and comforting but mostly he hears get the lead out of your ass, Davies every time Frank talks to him, which luckily isn't often. Connor's pretty far down on the office chain.
    More importantly, Frank Ianno's the head of IMK's three principals and makes all their contract and project decisions, and right now he's standing over Connor's desk with a speculative tilt to his head that does nothing to reassure Connor that this is something he's going to enjoy.
    "Sir," he says, but Frank just shakes his head and tosses a folder on the desk, scattering his notes on the Edgewood project. Connor's not sorry to see them buried.
    "He won't sign it," Frank says. "Rafe. I need you to get him to sign it."
    "Me?" Connor asks, surprise overriding sense. He's just an office peon— if Frank wanted him to walk the folder halfway across the city it's not like he'd say no, but Frank doesn't look offended.
    "Just put it back on my desk if I'm not in my office."
    "Wait," Connor says, alarmed now, but Frank's already disappeared behind his office door.
    It's just a signature. Nothing to fill him with this mix of dread and fluttering anticipation. Rafe's always been polite in their few chance encounters, but he's never seemed particularly impressed with Connor, either. Even at his interview a year ago, it was Frank asking all the questions and Rafe taking notes, his face giving nothing away. Connor imagined he could see right through Connor to his inexperience and doubts.
    His office is at the top of the stairs in the middle of the open office space, next to the conference room where they take clients and hold their few company meetings. Both rooms have a view of William Penn perched on his City Hall roost, the rest of Philly stretched out around and above him in lines of worn stone and glass.
    Rafe is looking out over it when Connor pauses in the office doorway. He clears his throat. "Mr. Kinlan."
    Rafe swivels around. Connor catches a hint of something— surprise, embarrassment at being caught off guard, the remains of whatever thoughts held him in such contemplation— before it's gone behind his usual professional mask.
    "Connor, right?" Rafe says. The query on his face fades when he catches sight of the folder. "So you're the sacrificial lamb. Tell him I'm not signing."
    Connor blinks. He always figured Rafe was unflappable. "I'm sorry?"
    "Don't be. It's nothing you did." He runs a hand over hair so short it's practically shaved. Connor's tried to guess his age before, but if there's any grey in the light brown hair it's too short to see, and the rest of him could be late twenties or mid-thirties. Young to be a principal, and hot enough to create a buzz in the office with his clean lines and lanky frame, but he's shown every sign of being oblivious to it.
    "I'm