Chapter 21: Memorize and Deleter
Monday morning arrived crisp and bright, but Oliver Clarke wasn’t in a rush.
He turned smoothly into the underground parking of Halverson and Co., the hum of his motorbike echoing off the walls as he navigated past a few parked sedans and company SUVs. His black bike came to a clean stop in his usual corner space. He killed the engine, then swung a leg over the seat, pulling off his matte black helmet.
He reached into the rear compartment and pulled out a folded brown paper bag, setting it gently on the seat before tucking the helmet inside. He paused to fix his tie and smooth the lapels of his dark coat, adjusting his collar.
From the saddlebag, he also pulled out a cardboard cup tray holding three coffees, steam curling faintly from the lids. He hooked the paper bag under one arm and began the walk toward the underground entrance.
The building lobby was already humming by the time Oliver came through the security doors. The security guards at the front desk straightened when they saw him.
“Morning, sir!” one of them called out.
“Hey, Eric,” Oliver grinned. “Busy weekend?”
“Too short,” Eric replied with a groan.
Oliver laughed. “Aren’t they always?”
As he strolled further in, he caught the eye of the two front desk receptionists. Both waved in unison.
“Oliver! Did you bring my matcha today?” teased he younger one with blunt bangs and a forever-chewed pen cap tucked behind her ear.
He winced. “Ah, no—I owe you. Tomorrow, scout’s honor, Hazel.”
“Hmm, I’m holding you to that,” she said, grinning.
The elevator dinged, and Oliver stepped in, holding the door instinctively when he heard a voice behind him.
“Wait, please!”
He stuck an arm out just in time. A woman in a deep blue dress hurried in, slightly out of breath. She was in her early fifties, with soft waves of chestnut hair and bright eyes.
“Thank you, dear,” she said, catching her breath. “You’re always so fast with the door. Unlike that young man last week who pretended not to see me.”
“Anytime, Ms. Fowler,” Oliver replied warmly.
She smiled. “My daughter said thank you again, by the way. That little tech miracle you pulled saved her entire thesis draft.”
“She just needed a new adapter,” Oliver said with a modest shrug. “Glad it worked out.”
As the elevator filled with more employees—some with earbuds in, others clutching their own coffee—Oliver said polite hellos where appropriate but didn’t push for small talk. Still, more than one person in the elevator stole a glance at his way.
He stepped out on the 19th floor; the energy at Pixel Ledger floor was already different from the rest of the building.
A few people greeted him as he passed—quick waves, small smiles, and a raised chin from one of the interns who always blushed too hard when he spoke to her. He returned them all with his usual charm, but his steps never slowed until he reached his desk.
No sooner had he placed the coffee tray down than two figures emerged from opposite directions—Winston, with his signature half-tucked shirt and designer stubble, and Liza, hips swaying beneath tailored slacks, her blouse clinging to every curve like it had been sewn on.
Winston zeroed in on the coffee. “God, you’re a prince. What did we do to deserve you?”
Oliver handed him one of the cups. “You bullied me into it last Friday.”
“Mm, right. Well, tomorrow’s on me,” Winston said, taking a long sip before licking a drop off his thumb. “Unless I get abducted by a cult of yoga moms again. You know how it is.”
Liza took her cup with a smile, her other hand brushing her thick curls behind one shoulder. “I’d let them keep you.”
“Jealous,” Winston said, and then his eyes slid to her like a slow pan across a crime scene. “Although if I were you, I wouldn’t wear those pants if you didn’t want to distract the entire goddamn floor.”
Liza raised an eyebrow and sipped her coffee. “Then maybe don’t look at my ass.”
Winston made a dramatic noise of pain. “You wound me.”
Oliver was busy unrolling the top of the paper bag he brought, laying out what turned out to be breakfast pastries. Croissants, muffins, and a rogue cheese danish. He set it all on a napkin beside the coffee.
“You’re ridiculous,” Liza told Winston, but she was smiling as she said it.
Winston leaned over the desk toward Oliver, stage-whispering. “Does she know she looks like a walking HR violation today?”
“She knows,” Oliver said, deadpan. Then he handed her the cheese danish. “Yours.”
Liza winked. “You know me too well.”
As they leaned around his desk—bantering, sipping coffee, sneaking bits of pastry—it looked, from a distance, like any normal Monday morning. But under the surface, Oliver's mind was elsewhere.
And he still hadn’t seen Del.
Oliver settled into his desk just as Winston took a loud, appreciative sip of his coffee.
“You’re a good man, Clarke,” Winston said, lifting the cup in salute.
Oliver chuckled. “I’ll take a croissant too.”
Liza leaned against the edge of his desk, her eyes flicking between Oliver and her phone. “So,” she said, drawing out the word, “any messages from Del this morning?”
Oliver shrugged, reaching for his own cup. “Nope.”
Liza tilted her head. “You didn’t see her over the weekend, right?”
“Nope,” he said again, popping the ‘p’. “My stuff got delivered Saturday, but I had to visit my uncle in Larchfield. Just got back last night.”
“She told me your boxes are blocking her living room,” Liza said, arching a brow.
Oliver winced playfully. “Yeah… I messaged her. Told her I’d be there after work and sort it out.”
“Good. Please don’t screw this up,” Liza said before she walked back to her desk.
Once they’d both gone, Oliver leaned back and let out a breath. For a moment, he let himself enjoy the quiet around his desk.
Then his phone vibrated and he quickly checked in.
Del: Bought something. And the door has a new keypad lock now.
Del: 93821. Memorize it and delete this.
Smiling, he typed his reply.
Oliver: You know, most people just say “welcome home.”
Del: I’m not most people.
Del: And this isn’t your home.
Oliver smiled at the screen.
Oliver: Yet.
There was a short pause.
Del: Don’t push it.
Del: My class is starting. Delete the code.
Oliver: Yes, ma’am.
Oliver: Memorized, deleted, honored.
Oliver: You’re adorable when you’re paranoid.
Del: Blocked.
Oliver chuckled and locked his phone, still grinning as he leaned back in his chair.