Flames in the Frost

EMMA

I burst through the office doors, cheeks flushed from the cold and the rush. The warehouse heating crisis took longer than expected, and I’m cutting it close for our meeting with Trevor. My half-drunk peppermint mocha—now lukewarm and forgotten since morning—sits abandoned on my desk.

I snatch it up, taking a quick gulp as I speed-walk toward the elevators, my laptop bag banging against my hip.

“Trevor is going to be pissed,” Liv’s voice filters through the phone to me as I press the elevator button repeatedly.

“I know. Can you just like, make up an excuse or something? Tell him I fell in one of New York City’s potholes and they had to fish me out like I was a baby lamb.”

“You know what, that’s actually a believable excuse.”

I laugh and punch the elevator’s up button again, cursing under my breath. What the hell is taking so long?

“You know, there are rumors that if the wreath relaunch doesn’t go perfectly, he might cut our team.”

I draw in a sharp breath. That would be devastating.

Not just because I’ve been funneling part of my paycheck into keeping the charity afloat—but because I need this job. Rent. Student loan debt that never seems to shrink. A never-ending list of bills.

But losing this job? That means losing them. The kids. My charity. My heart. The reason I wake up every morning.

“We won’t let that happen,” I say, more to myself than to her.

Liv doesn’t sound convinced. “Well, if it’s not Trevor who pulls the trigger, it might be the new CEO.”

My stomach knots, and I bite down on my lip. Because knowing how things ended with Max? Liv might not be wrong.

Just add that to my list of anxieties that keep me up at night.

I sigh and glance up at the elevator panel to see what floor we’re stuck on, but before my brain even processes the number, a shiver rolls down my spine.

I’m being watched.

And not just by anyone.

“Good morning,” says a deep, incredibly familiar voice coming from right next to me.

Oh my god. It’s Max.

I clear my throat, trying not to lose it, but he’s here. Standing next to me at the elevator, like this is totally normal, while looking at me curiously.

“Good morning,” I manage to squeak out. I feel my grip tighten around the cup in my hand, the cardboard crinkling slightly.

He nods as if he doesn’t recognize me, his eyes darting back to the phone that he’s angrily typing out a text message into.

The doors to the elevator slide open, and he doesn’t look up, letting me step inside first. I move toward the back of the car, pressing my hands against the golden walls behind me as he enters the elevator, facing away from me. I’m trying to distance myself from his scent, but it seems to fill every inch of the small space, inescapable and overwhelming.

Does he really not recognize me?

Sure, my hair is longer, my face more mature. Even my eyes probably look sadder than they used to. Life hasn’t exactly been easy. But we were best friends at one time. We knew everything about each other. The thought that he can’t tell it’s me stings, especially since I can’t seem to look away from him.

I shamelessly stare at his reflection in the mirrored glass of the elevator while his back remains turned toward me. Dammit. He aged well.

The doors to our floor slide open and he steps out without even a glance in my direction.

I sigh, attempt to gather myself, and then hurry in the opposite direction.

When I get to the meeting, Trevor is standing at the head of the conference room, his navy pinstripe suit hanging loosely on his lanky, bent frame. Wire-rimmed glasses perch perpetually on the end of his sharp nose.

“Unfortunately, these three won’t work,” he says, pulling up images of some of our prototype wreaths. “We’ve got supply problems with wicker, and the eco-plastic frames are showing structural integrity issues.”

He turns to Kevin. “Your development team needs to resolve these technical constraints before we can move forward.”

He taps a design I spent two hours mocking up last night—a minimalist wreath with laser-cut geometric patterns and embedded solar-powered LED lights. “I don’t like this one.”

His cursor moves to Liv’s favorite design—an intricate wreath with handwoven natural fibers and delicate porcelain snowflake accents. “And this one will be way over budget because of the custom ceramic work. You guys should know that.”

Each criticism lands like a small hammer, chipping away at our team’s confidence. I can feel Liv tense beside me, Kevin’s shoulders slumping slightly.

Trevor shakes his head with an exasperated sigh. “Look, we’re aiming to finalize ten concepts for the upcoming holiday wreath launch by the end of the week, meaning we need to generate at least thirty new designs today to present to the leadership team for their consideration.”

My team has never missed a go-live before, and we’ve always delivered quality work—after my recent tardies, however, and the failure of the last wreath launch, I am definitely on Trevor’s watch list.

“I can’t stress enough how important it is that this launch is successful. All our jobs are on the line here,” Trevor continues, but he isn’t looking at anyone but me. “Will that be a problem, Emma?”

I swallow, force a smile, and nod. “I’ll have the new concepts to you by the end of the day.”

As soon as Trevor leaves, Liv sprawls dramatically across a chair, her long blonde hair cascading over the armrest. As always, she looks effortlessly gorgeous: she’s wearing a hand-knit sweater in muted sage green, layered over wide-leg vintage trousers that look like they came from a Brooklyn thrift store.

“God, what a nightmare,” she mutters, sitting up straight as she grabs a stack of design magazines—Wallpaper and ~Monocle~—and tosses one to Kevin.

Kevin, wire-rimmed glasses slightly askew, adjusts his Dad-cardigan and starts unpacking the wreath samples we just received from one of our suppliers. A prototype sits on the table—eco-friendly pine branches woven with recycled copper wire, delicate LED lights barely visible in its intricate design.

“Folks, we are in a pickle,” he says, his Boston drawl softening the technical assessment.

Liv rolls her eyes and pulls out her iPad, swiping through Pinterest boards. “Look at these,” she says, pointing to an intricate macramé wreath with copper wire accents. “Something like this could work.”

Kevin picks up another sample—this one with hand-blown glass ornaments integrated into a minimalist frame. On his phone he quickly calculates material costs and turns the screen toward me with a worried expression.

“Okay, so I’ve got a few here we might be able to use.” I pull out some of the rough images that I mocked up last night and point at the five that I think the leadership team will like the best.

Though I’m not a product designer, I’ve spent a considerable amount of my free time playing around with the tools the designers use, in order to be more useful to my team. “We just need five more ideas to get to the thirty that Trevor wants.”

We spend the next two hours pooling our expertise, working together to generate another five really strong mock-ups. I slump back in my chair and let out a deep breath. “What do you guys think?”

“These look good,” Liv responds, stacking up the printouts on top of her iPad. “Let me take them back to my desk, and I should be able to finalize them digitally in the next thirty minutes.”

Kevin agrees, and we part ways for now. I’m just grabbing my empty coffee cup off the conference table when I hear a deep voice from behind me.

“Hello, Emma.” I turn at the sound of a voice to find Max standing in the doorway.

He’s leaning against the frame in a much more casual manner than I could ever pull off, considering I feel anything but calm around him, and I almost drop my coffee on the floor.

He’s so much more sophisticated and surer of himself.

Very different from the boy I once knew.

His presence around me feels like it’s absorbing all the oxygen in the small conference room, and I hate how nervous I am around him. Wondering if he recognizes me, or if he just hates me so much that he’s pretending he doesn’t.

I was already nervous about whether the new CEO would be willing to continue the company’s partnership with my charity. Now that I know it’s Max—well, I’m even more nervous.

I swallow and clear my throat.

“Yes. Hi, Maxwell. It’s nice to meet you,” I respond, unsure of how exactly to address him.

Do I call him Max? Do I act like I remember him? He certainly didn’t seem to remember me this morning when we were in the elevator together. Then again, he didn’t even acknowledge me.

“Would you mind joining me in my office in about thirty minutes? Trevor told me you were the lead on the wreaths we’re relaunching next week, and I’d like to see the designs that you plan on proposing ahead of time.”

“Okay, sure…,” I say hesitantly, and then move to walk out the door.

As I approach, he shifts—just barely—just enough to let me pass. But the heat from his body lingers, radiating toward me like a force field, like if I move too slow, I might get caught in its pull.

I can smell him. Dark spice, something warm, something that clings to my skin even though we don’t touch.

I look up, caught for a single, breathless moment in the doorway. He’s already watching me. Dark brown eyes locked onto mine, unreadable yet brimming with something—confusion, hurt, maybe something darker, something that tightens around my chest.

We’re so close. His suit brushes the front of my dress, and it feels like a deliberate test. Like he’s daring me to react. To admit that I know it’s him. The air is thick, dense with words we never said, choices we can’t take back.

“Excuse me,” I whisper, my voice barely there.

And then I move. Quickly. Purposefully. My heels clicking too fast against the tile as I slip past him, as if putting distance between us will settle the riot in my chest. My office isn’t far—I just need to get inside, take a breath, get my bearings before the meeting with him.

But at the last second, against my better judgment, I steal a glance over my shoulder.

Max is still standing there, his gaze focused on my body, his face completely unreadable.

Maybe he doesn’t recognize me after all…