“Let’s get you back to your cabin before I defile my desk a second time.”
TWENTY-TWO
Charli sat in the break room at work, lost in thought as she unwrapped her sandwich. Coming into work after two weeks with Grant almost felt like waking up from some crazy-hot dream and realizing reality was still there waiting for you. It had been good to get back in the routine of things, to see some of her coworkers, but she’d missed Grant and the country as soon as she’d crossed the line into downtown.
The realization was sobering. She and Grant had definitely made strides in dropping the pretenses of their arrangement. They both knew they weren’t doing this simply for training anymore and had agreed to another two weeks together. They enjoyed each other, had rocking chemistry and a taste for pushing boundaries. But every night after being together, she was painfully aware of the fact that he never kissed her, never stayed over at her cabin, and never invited her to his. This may not be training, but it was still a temporary dalliance. One that would be over soon.
Voices sounded to her left as her coworkers Pete and Steven pushed through the door of the break room. They were laughing and engrossed in conversation. Neither seemed to notice her sitting in the far corner of the room.
“Man, did you see how fucked up her report was at last week’s game?” Pete said, pulling open the communal refrigerator. “She said the only way SMU could win was to get more points than the other team.”
Steven barked a laugh. “Well, that is truly the only way to win. Though I didn’t notice the gaffe. I was too busy looking elsewhere. Apparently, it was very cold out there on the sidelines, looked like she was smuggling Tic Tacs.”
Pete grabbed a take-out container from the fridge. “Yeah, wouldn’t mind having a little taste of that candy. Just wish the bitch wouldn’t have stolen my promotion.”
Anger, white hot and instant, flashed through Charli. Her soda can, which she’d been squeezing since the first off-color comment, clinked against the table, drawing both men’s attention.
“Oh, crap,” Steven said, having the nerve to look ashamed. “Didn’t see you there, Charli. Sorry.”
Pete sniffed and tossed his food in the microwave. “You don’t need to apologize to Beaumonde about a little guy talk. She’s one of us. Plus, I’m sure Stormy isn’t her favorite person either. Beaumonde wanted the job, too.”
Charli’s can buckled beneath her death grip. “So because she got the job, you have the right to act like a goddamned pig, Pete?”
Steven hung back, sipping his soda and shifting from foot to foot like he had to pee. But Pete, undeterred, grabbed his food and perched on the edge of one of the tables near Charli. “Oh, chill out, Beaumonde. Every guy in this office is talking about her tits. If she cared, she wouldn’t wear shirts that are two sizes too small. She likes the attention.”
Charli’s stomach turned. She pushed her sandwich away, muttering, “I think I’ve stepped back into 1970.”
Pete brought a bite of his stir-fry noodles to his mouth, eyeing her, his brows rising as he took in the full view for the first time. He choked down the bite. “Well, fuck me. Look at you. You’re taking a page from her book, aren’t you?”Author: Roni Loren
She stood, too disgusted to tolerate another second of this conversation. “I’m outta here. The average IQ level of the room has plummeted to prehistoric levels.”
But he hopped off the table, sliding in front of her path. His gaze raked down her new silk blouse and the pencil skirt she’d worn as Grant’s assistant. “I haven’t seen you since your vacation. That’s what you were up to, wasn’t it? Redoing your image? You’re worried you’re going to get passed over again so you’re going for the hot-piece-of-ass angle.”
“Dude,” Steven interrupted. “Shut the fuck up and get out of her way. You’re just being a prick now.”
She shuddered, feeling as if she needed to bathe in disinfectant after his perusal, but straightened to her full height, reminding him she had an inch or two on him. “I suggest you move or you’ll be talking in soprano for your next audition.”
“You’re kind of cute when you get mad, Beaumonde.”
As if acting on its own accord, her fist reared back and landed an uppercut square into Pete’s stomach. He doubled over with an oof. She put her hand on his shoulder and bent next to his ear as he gasped for air. “You’re lucky I’m wearing a skirt because otherwise your nuts would be in your throat right now. You say another disgusting thing about me or any other woman in this office, and I’ll report you for sexual harassment.”
She shoved past him and leveled a look at Steven, who raised his palms in surrender. “I really am sorry.”
She simply shook her head and left the two of them in the break room. By the time she made it to the other end of the building, the nausea still hadn’t abated. Pete was a dick, but what he’d said had rung a bell of truth inside her. Wasn’t what she’d been doing these past two weeks exactly what he’d said? She was trying to mold herself into something that would please the guys who only wanted to ogle some girl’s boobs on television.
She sagged in her desk chair, letting her head fall back. Was this the kind of thing she was signing up for? She wanted the on-air position more than anything, and knew her approach had needed some refining, but pretending to be something she wasn’t suddenly felt way too similar to her failed pageant days. Smile a little brighter, Charli. Flutter your lashes. Speak softly to the judges. Watch how your sister does it.
Without thinking too much about it, she followed her first instinct. She picked up her office phone and dialed Grant’s number.
After two rings, she almost chickened out, but then heard the click.
“Hey there, freckles,” he said, his voice like warm ocean water over her skin, soothing her. “I didn’t think I’d hear from you until you were done for the day. Everything okay?”
“I guess. Am I interrupting you?” she asked, feeling silly calling him in the middle of the day.
“You’re never an interruption.” She heard a squeak, as if he was leaning back in his desk chair. Even though she’d never seen the office he used in town, she could picture him there—tilted back, boot hitched over his knee. “How’s your day going?”
She looked behind her to make sure no one was standing near her cubicle and lowered her voice. “I punched a guy in the stomach already. How’s yours?”