Campbell Porter will be the death of me.

The first time I heard his voice, I was perched ­cross-legged on an Eames chair in the Slater Faust lobby, waiting for orientation to start. It blared from the elevator bay like some kind of warning. Big and scratchy; less sexy rasp, more dust storm. The sort of thing that obliterates everyone around it.

But Campbell’s voice was only his first infraction. Then it was his desk, facing mine, the two of us set up outside our manager’s office like desperate gargoyles. So close I could see the gold sweep of Campbell’s hair above my computer ­monitor—a hat I didn’t ask for, sitting atop every Word document I opened.

Then it was his knee. The way it bounces when he’s thinking. How he spent all summer rattling the floor beneath us.

Then his Vanderbilt Phi Beta Kappa mug. As if I didn’t already get it. The old money, the whiplash speed of Campbell Porter’s brain. No, he had to carry that thing to every meeting—palming it from the top like a heathen.

Then his eyebrows. Arching in reaction to anything I said.

His email response time. A millisecond faster than mine, without fail, on every assignment I wanted that he claimed first.

His ringtone, inexplicably “Moon River,” never once set to silent.

The way he says my full name, Mattie French. Like it’s a joke he won’t let me in on.

The lopsided tug of his mouth when he writes a line and it’s better than mine. The disorienting blond of his eyelashes, flicking like fool’s gold.

And now, worst of all: Campbell with his long fingers laced together like he doesn’t even have the decency to be nervous.