Erica watches his mouth as it makes words. She’s still sleepy, and she feels like sinking toward it. “Actually, I don’t eat breakfast. I hope to leave the candy untouched until after lunch.” She considers. “But thanks for the invitation. Maybe we can make it lunch sometime?”

Hank smiles into her eyes. He wonders why he’s asking. He is attracted to Erica but she seems hyper like his mother and type A like his ex. He has been single for awhile now and he thinks he needs a softer woman than the one in front of him.

Erica feels a moment of awkwardness. She looks away from him as he asks, “How about one day next week?”

An elevator door opens and a crowd ahead of them pours into it. They’ll get on the next one. Hank wants to draw her closer to him, but continues, “I don’t have my calendar. Let’s stop at my office and negotiate.”

“Fine. I think I know mine well enough. I certainly know what I’m doing next.”

“Candy?”

“Not hardly. It’s the time of year when we have to evaluate our two clerical employees. I and my two so-called partners attempted that yesterday. One review did not go well. That’s one out of two, so I’m not feeling like any sort of effective manager. I just learned that the employee was ‘sent home’ today, due to emotional stress/illness. As usual, I’m having to handle this alone. The women I call partners only act that way around bonuses.” Erica stops speaking. She doesn’t want to complain. She’s surprised at how willing she apparently is, to speak critically to an almost-stranger about people to whom she should owe, well, discretion if not much else.

Their elevator arrives. They and half a dozen others ride up one floor. Hank guides Erica to the right down the hall and into an exterior office. “You remind me how glad I am to work without employees. On the other hand, I could use a colleague now, when I’m under pressure to produce. Welcome to my place.” He extends his arms out to either side and glances at her.

His office is one large room with a view over Sansome Street. His desk faces the door, but he has a credenza between his chair and the windows; the papers scattered on it show he works in that direction. A large appointment calendar is open on the credenza.

He looks at the calendar. She aims her eyes out the window. He speaks softly as he turns the pages. “Can we make it next Wednesday?”

She takes a step closer to him. “I think that works for me. I can let you know if it doesn’t.”

“Here.” He reaches into a pocket for his card case. “Call me if we need to renegotiate.” Their fingertips touch with the passing of the card. They’re both aware of the touch.

She looks up into his face for a moment. Sometimes, when she leans out over an open window high up, she feels the impulse not to jump but to allow herself to fall. It’s a resistible but surprisingly strong idea. Right now, she feels a similar strong but resistible urge to fall toward his face and kiss his mouth.

“Okay,” she exhales. “I should get back to work. If nothing else, the chocolate calls.”

Hank smiles at her. “Good luck. I’ll see you next week.” She’s at the door, nodding back at him when he adds, “Oh, Erica. What type of chocolate do you like best?”

“Toffee-ettes,” she answers without a pause.

Hank sits for a minute after the door closes. He checks his phone messages: Margo insists on a callback about Tom’s latest misdemeanor and Betsy, who ought to see by now that their little relationship isn’t going anywhere, is still nagging about a weekend opera date. “Oh hell,” Hank mutters. “Chocolate calls,” and he resumes his interrupted quest for a mocha.