Chapter 22: The Unexpected
Y/n managed to extract herself from Margot’s arms, the ghost of their laughter still hanging in the air between them. The buzzing phone felt like an alarm from another world. She scooped it up, scanning the rapid-fire texts from Leo.
Job site on 5th. Foreman’s pissed. Some delivery fuck-up with the steel beams.
You nearby?
Now would be good.
She thumbed a quick reply. On my way. The words felt like dropping a anchor. The warm, sun-drenched universe of the penthouse contracted to the dimensions of a problem to be solved.
“Trouble?” Margot asked, watching her face.
“The usual. Someone didn’t order the right thing, now everything’s behind, now everyone’s yelling.” Y/n pulled her grey t-shirt over her head, the soft cotton replacing the feeling of Margot’s silk robe. She found her socks, balled up near the sprawling modular sofa.
“Sounds like a movie set,” Margot said, drifting closer as Y/n sat to lace her heavy work boots. “Just swap steel beams for overpriced prop coffee that’s never hot.”
Y/n grinned, tugging a knot tight. “At least your fake coffee comes with a craft services table. We get a lukewarm vending machine soda if we’re lucky.”
She stood, the boots grounding her. The transformation was almost physical—from the relaxed lover in jeans to the capable tradeswoman ready for a site. She collected her tool belt from by the door, the weight of the hammer and tape measure familiar and steadying.
Margot leaned in the kitchen doorway, arms crossed, a speculative glint in her eye. “So. You never did tell me what you thought of the new Harley. In Birds of Prey. Less hot pants, more egg sandwich.”
Y/n froze, one hand on the door handle. She looked over her shoulder, a wary smile on her face. “Are you ever gonna let that go?”
“Not a chance.” Margot’s voice was sweet, innocent. She pushed off the doorframe and sauntered closer, her bare feet silent on the polished concrete. “It’s my new favorite piece of trivia. I’m gonna tell my publicist. ‘Target demographic: construction workers named Y/n.’”
“Don’t you dare,” Y/n laughed, but the laugh caught in her throat as Margot stopped right in front of her, well within her space.
Margot looked up at her, and for a second, her expression was pure, guileless curiosity. Then it shifted. It was subtle—a slight narrowing of the eyes, a tilt of the head, a curl at the corner of her mouth that wasn’t quite her own. When she spoke, the voice was different. It was higher, peppier, a playful, Brooklyn-tinged cadence that Y/n had only ever heard through theater speakers.
“So, big girl,” the voice—Harley’s voice—purred. “You get all flustered watchin’ me break stuff with a hyena?”
Y/n’s breath hitched. It was uncanny. The actress was gone, replaced entirely by the chaotic glint of the character. Before Y/n could form a reply, Margot’s hand—moving with that character’s impish boldness—darted out. Her fingertips brushed lightly, deliberately, over the front of Y/n’s jeans, right at the zipper. The touch was a feather-light graze, over in a millisecond, but it sent a jolt of pure, undiluted electricity straight through Y/n’s core.
Margot instantly stepped back, her hands flying up in a parody of innocence. The Harley voice vanished, replaced by her own smooth, cheerful alto. “Have a good day at work, honey!”
She turned and began walking casually back toward the kitchen, as if she hadn’t just short-circuited Y/n’s entire nervous system. Then she paused, glanced back over her shoulder, and let the Harley voice slip out once more, low and promising.
“I’ll be waitin’ for ya.”
Then she was gone, around the corner, leaving the scent of her perfume and the echo of the voice hanging in the foyer.
Y/n stood rooted to the spot. Her face was hot. The phantom touch seemed to burn through the denim. She was simultaneously mortified, aroused, and utterly disarmed. She shook her head, a slow, disbelieving laugh escaping her. “Unreal,” she muttered to the empty, luxurious space.
She yanked the door open and stepped into the sterile hallway, the heavy door thudding shut behind her, sealing away the warmth and the madness. The elevator ride down was a blur of reflective metal. She adjusted her tool belt, cleared her throat, tried to will the flush from her neck.
But the grin wouldn’t leave her face. The memory of that split-second touch, the shocking accuracy of the voice, the sheer audacity of it, played on a loop. The texts from Leo about steel beams felt distant, trivial. The whole city, stretching out beyond the lobby doors, seemed slightly off-kilter, charged with a secret.
She pushed through the building’s front doors into the growl of downtown. The morning air was cool, laced with exhaust and the distant thump of a jackhammer. She pulled her work gloves from her back pocket, the thick leather familiar against her palms.
As she walked toward the subway, the weight of her boots solid on the pavement, she realized she was still smiling. A woman in a sharp business suit glanced at her, then quickly away. Y/n didn’t care. Her mind was thirty floors up, in a sunlit kitchen, with a woman who could become someone else at will, just to tease her.
The day ahead of concrete dust and shouting men held no dread. It was just an interval. A space between moments. She had a promise to return to, waiting in a voice that was both a joke and a pledge. The city noise faded into a hum. All she could really hear was the echo of it.
I’ll be waitin’ for ya.