Her freshly manicured nails tapped quickly on her Mac keyboard. She sat, perched, bolt-upright at her desk. She always sat like that but this afternoon, she was more rigid, her shoulders tense. She was nervous as hell, but focused on her work. Her eyes pierced her computer screen, determined to finish this stupid email before…

Footsteps.

She reluctantly tore her eyes from her computer screen, losing her focus as her gaze fell on a group of musicians who’d just walked through the door. She smiled and greeted them from her desk.

The one closest to her was a bit scrawny; the hippy-type (not hipster) with thin, shaggy, dirty blonde hair. He looked like a country version of The Shaggy from Scooby-Doo, Where are You!(…yes, the 90’s cartoon). Recognizing her, he smiled and waved, the nervous confusion lifting from his kind, but otherwise goofy face.

Behind Shaggy, stood the rest of the band. A plump boy in a button down, with square glasses was holding his guitar case, and next to him a skinny girl with stringy hair held her violin case. But it was always the band’s drummer who always caught her eye.

They locked eyes and he smiled at her, maneuvering around the rest of the band to walk towards her desk as she stood up.

She could feel the heat begin to rise in the back of her neck, working towards her cheeks. She reminded herself to breathe as she grabbed her notebook and stuck her black ballpoint pen behind her ear. She rose gracefully from her seat (miraculously) and gave Shaggy and the rest of the band hugs. She introduced them to her coworkers, all sitting distracted around her before she led them to the recording studio.

She returned to her desk to work. Music and chatter omitted from the studio the rest of the afternoon. Her day was a blur; she was distracted. She blamed the noise but knew that was only a scapegoat.

She’d escaped those gorgeous, hazel eyes for quite some time but she knew, even before today, how much she’d missed him. Booking his band for a podcast wasn’t just a mutually beneficial career move. She felt like she’d needed an excuse – a real one – to talk to him again. She wanted – no, she needed – to know him better.

But the pit in her stomach all afternoon made her wish she hadn’t reached out. He got away; it happens, and she should have let it remain that way. She didn’t need to relive the heartache or feign friendship when she wanted more. She didn’t need to pretend he didn’t give her the most terrifying case of butterflies…

She worked extra hard (and got so much done) all afternoon in an attempt to distract herself. Regardless, her mind reeled, mulling over all of these things.

Then, he smiled at her, and the pit in her stomach lifted, and she was in his world. She believed in magic for that reason alone. It wasn’t a cliche spell or a potion; It was a trance. Experienced witchcraft. She should know the counter-curse…

But she didn’t.

Potions, crystals…there was nothing she could do to change the timing, and no one could fix that. Yet…she wanted to believe…by the look, the sparkle in his eyes, that she still had time. A chance. And somehow…

Tick.