“Aw, come on,” Michael groans, put-upon, though he keeps his face close to hers. “It ain't that bad.”
He wants to press their cheeks together, but he's stopped by a noise at the doorway. It's the kind of noise someone makes when they're trying not to make one, and it's followed by what might be a slap and then a stifled curse. He looks up at Lee like a long-suffering babysitter, then turns around. The doorway is empty except for the corner of a hemline of a dress peeking out from behind the frame.
“Seriously?” Michael calls out. “Are you people five years old? What is this? You're a bunch of perverts!”
Somewhere outside, Stan cracks up. That means it was Peggy's idea. She reveals herself with shoulders unashamedly squared and a pursed-lipped smile on her face that says she feels like an idiot but will sure as fuck not be admitting it to anyone. She's shorter than Michael by a good five inches, which means she's dwarfed by Lee. For a moment, Peggy hesitates in front of the blonde, but not out of surprise like Stan did, or maybe not out of the same kind of surprise. It's more like she's trying to look more closely at something, figure something out. Michael sees that look a lot.
She's shortly holding out her hand, though, in an awkward, belated attempt to act like a professional. “Hi, I'm Peggy Olson, Ginsberg's creative director. It's nice to meet you,” she says.