I sat in the chair across from Vivienne's unnecessarily expensive glass desk while she stared at me like I'd just announced plans to burn down her mother's flagship store.
Her fingers were doing that thing where they drummed against the tablet in perfect rhythm. One two three four. Repeat. The metronome of someone whose brain was working overtime to decide whether to fire me or lecture me first.
She was going with lecture.
"This," she said, turning her tablet toward me, "is a problem."
I looked at the screen. Same photo. Me and Cassidy. Bubble tea. The internet had already decided we were secretly dating based on the scientifically rigorous evidence of "standing near each other."
Modern journalism truly was an art form.
"What is?" I asked, because playing dumb bought me approximately three more seconds to think.
