Here’s the thing about cute girls.

Other people notice.

You do, certainly. You’re all about cute girls—and guys—and people in general. Everyone is beautiful in their own way. Everyone has merit, is useful and worthy of second chances.

Unless they swoop in on your promotion and pry it from your cold dead hands.

You’re stuck with Mary Sue now, whatever way you want to spin it. You’d like to pretend you’re above training her wrong on purpose, and you are. But you sure as hell think about it. Mary Sue is a genius, from what you glean—she learns like a sponge and recites office protocol back to you in shockingly efficient fashion, impressing even you, just a bit.

But here’s the thing about cute girls.

Other people notice, and when that cute girl is Mary Sue, they become different people.

Marco Dalfoy, the little bitch of a rich-kid snot-stain three rows of cubicles up, clears his throat. You and Mary Sue glance up from your computer, where you’re showing her—very unhappily—sales trajectories for the upcoming fiscal year. It’s important. It’s your job.

Was almost my job.

You’ll cry about it later.

Marco Dalfoy: Gucci-wearing yacht boy one week out of Berkley with a BA in English, minor in Social Studies, and a boatload of nepotism. He’s a tin of Pomade wrapped in cashmere sweater vests and thinly-veiled threats about his father. He also bullied you at the Catholic boarding school you both attended—owned by his daddy—and bullies you here at the company—owned by his daddy—and bullies you in the halls of your apartment building—owned also by his daddy.

Marco hit on you, once. You were twelve and he used the wrong pronouns, even though you’d been quite clear he was to refer to you as they/them. You pushed him in a koi pond—owned by his daddy—and funny enough, you haven’t gotten along since.

He doesn’t even acknowledge you. “Mary Sue, was it?” Marco turns on his best, most charming smile. It makes you want to rip out your eyes, but at least it isn’t directed at you. He holds up two paper cups capped with lids. “I wanted to personally welcome you to the team. Do you like matcha lattes?”

Mary Sue, who you still haven’t figured out, gasps and stands, pearly teeth catching fractured light. “Do I!”

Marco starts to say something, probably about his snakeskin collection or some shit, and freezes when Mary Sue takes both lattes from his hands.

“It’s so sweet of you to pick up drinks for Billie and me. How thoughtful!”

Mary Sue hands you a latte. It has lip smudges on it, but nothing can bring down your mood now. You look Marco dead in the eye, lift the cup, and take a long, slow sip.

Marco recovers quick. He turns his head, smirking. He never looks at people when he flirts with them—you don’t get it. “Of course. Billie and I have been close for ages, haven’t we, Billie? They’re practically my best mate!”

Note to self: vomit later.

He holds out a pigmentless hand. “I’m Marco Dalfoy. I’m sure you’ve heard of me.”

Mary Sue says, “Satan’s son, right?” and you spit out your latte.

Lucifer Dalfoy, Marco’s father and overlord, may as well be Satan, for all the love in his heart. Nobody deserves a dad like that. Not even this sorry excuse of Burberry scarves and Altoids. Marco laughs, forced and stiff, keeping his smile on his face.

You’re impressed he’s still here after that epic burn.

The power of Boner is strong, you guess.

“Lucifer Dalfoy, yes,” Marco chuckles. “Satan’s a silly little mix-up we’ve been trying to correct for some time, now.”

“Oh, I’m so sorry.”

“Not at all, not at all! If you have any questions, feel absolutely free to chat,” he says. “I’m something of an expert when it comes to market trends, after all. And if you need anything do let me know, and I’ll see what I can do for you. Father and I want your time here to be absolutely seamless. You will let me know if anyone’s troubling you?”

“Sure, Marco.” Mary Sue holds up her latte. “Thanks for the drink!”

“Goodbye, Mary Sue,” Marco says, walking backward.

She nods. “Goodbye, Marco.”

He pauses at the end of the row. “Goodbye, Mary Sue.”

Knit brows accompany her smile. “Yeah, bye!”

He stops at the copy machine. “Bye, Mary Sue. We’ll chat soon?”

“Well you know where I work, so…”

He turns around at the corner leading to the restrooms. “Bye, Mary Sue.”

Mary Sue blinks, lips flat.

Marco vanishes.

“Jesus Christ,” you snort, pointing to her cup. “He wasn’t being subtle at all.”

She lets out a long, heavy breath, sets the cup on your shared desk. Marco’s number is written in dark, bold Sharpie. Thrice. And underlined. (Just in case.) “He was being friendly. Everyone here is so nice! A lot of people want to keep in contact, I think—this is the sixteenth phone number I’ve gotten since I picked up my badge this morning.”

Yeah. Keeping in contact is not their main motivation. You lean back in your crap chair and look at her again, really take in every detail.

What the hell is it about her?

Mary Sue is a vision. No contest. Her heart-shaped face and doe-like eyes are soft, cheeks tinged a mix of rose and pink. She smells like summer peaches, fresh cream, some sort of nature metaphor, and something that’s distinctly her. In fact, her eyelashes are thick and full and lovely, and her hands are dainty and small.

Is that what it is? Her tiny hands?

“I’ve lost track of where we were,” you say, locking your computer. “It’s about time for lunch. Do you wanna come to the cafe across the street with me?”

Mary Sue jumps, rose and pink skin blanching. “Oh! No, thank you, Billie. I packed a lunch.”

You squint. She’s sweating. “No problem.”

“Can you tell me if there’s a break room nearby? I, um, don’t like people watching me eat.” She laughs, awkward, clipped.

You squint harder. “First floor, go through the gym. There’s private breastfeeding stations in the locker rooms, if that doesn’t bother you.”

“No, that’s perfect.” She snatches her baby blue COACH bag, backs away. “Thank you, Billie. I appreciate it.”

“Sure.”

“We’ll meet up again after break?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Great.” Mary Sue beams again, falsely bright, but no less dazzling. A beat, and her azure orbs go soft. “Really, Billie. I appreciate what you’ve done for me.”

You blink, breath caught in your throat. You open your mouth to say something back but Mary Sue is gone, every wandering eye in the office trailing after, whispers in her wake.

Here’s the thing about cute girls.

Other people notice.

Sometimes, other people are you.

You grab your wallet and keys and push in your chair, tossing Marco’s-then-your latte into the trash. You pick up Mary Sue’s to toss it, too, stop. Stare. It weighs down, dense in your palm.

She didn’t drink it.