Chapter 13
“And this,” Brexton begins, “is the project we’ll work on if Klein distributors shut us out.” He slides a piece of paper across the desktop.
Leaning forward, I catch a full view of the ad. Our target will be a German summer sausage producer, but the picture is not all that tasteful. It’s a skinny European model, who is baring her teeth at the food while her eyes are closed in euphoria. Not something for the dirty-minded. A small snort slips out.
“Is something funny, Miss Tucker?”
My joints stiffen. I shake my head, somber and quiet, then look at Brexton. Shit.
One eyebrow is cocked, his gaze stoic. There’s no upward tweaking of the mouth, no amusement… nothing. What sits at the desk today is a storm cloud of fury.
It’s exactly on course with how he’s behaved toward me these last two days.
Guess not even Grant Brexton is immune to the shock of a jilt, and I’m sunk in the ocean of guilt now. I think he’s hurt. Silence has been the method of his coping. Fearsome stares from hell have been the source of his punishment. Those are abundant, including the one raining down on me now.
I’ve been laying low, wallowing in how awful I feel for allowing myself that “moment” when all it did was hurt him. Overloading in ice-cream sandwiches, Netflix, and wine to subdue the regretful residue coating my heart is how I forget.
He sure wasn’t trying to cause harm to me. In fact, he praised me, and was so sweet and lost that he made me forget the world. He has every right to be mad, hurt, scathing—all of it. It’s proving that Grant Brexton is indeed human, and that I shouldn’t be getting involved with him. Still, those thoughts do nothing to dull the effects of Brexton’s stare. It’s making me squirm so much, you'd think there's a Thumbtack in my seat. The best way to stop this from being awkward is to not look at him, so I stare at my notebook.
“Make contact with them too,” he says. “That way, if we touch base in the future, we won't be strangers.”
I nod, head down, conscious not to bite on my lip while jotting notes. The last thing I want is to come off like a tease.
Tense silence hangs when I finish. All I do for a while is sit, unmoving, pen to paper, not breathing. Wow. You'd need an excavation convoy to shovel out this tension.
I finally dare a glance up, and it’s a mistake. He’s squinting at me with disdain so intense you’d think I killed the Pope. I gulp past the solid lump in my throat and speak. “Anything else, sir?”
“Make sure everything I need for Mr. Franz is together. Projections, return profits, graphs. Everything. I'm tying up other ends before I leave, so be certain I have it all. I'll pick it up at the end of the day.” He stares at me, his eyes like pins, and flicks his wrist to the door—my signal to leave.
“Yes, sir. Thank you.” I rise to my feet and dart out of the office faster than the speed of sound.
“Holy shit.” A huge exhale depletes my lungs after I step out on the floor and gaze around at the hustle and bustle.
Blistering stares and silence from hell with Brexton, or chaos so insane it could put a circus to shame.
Yeah, I’ll take the chaos.
I walk to my office, nodding to the few familiar faces I’ve come to know before tucking myself away.
The rest of my afternoon is paperwork upon paperwork, with a checklist to boot. I'll be damned if I forget something important for Brexton because right now, it will mean my head. I frown, glancing over a graph with several colors. Not that it would be a bad thing. A lower profile job might ease all my anxiety—or not. I don’t know what to think these days.
Either way, I decide not to push my luck and make sure this job is done right.
Five thirty hits. It's ‘rest day.’ A day we get once a month where most of the staff goes home at four, but today I’ve stayed behind. I'm entering the last report in the folder, when I hear a tap on the door.
“Miss Tucker.” It's Brexton, and by the dull sound of his voice, he remains in the same foul mood from before.
My fault. I shouldn’t have bolted. Nothing can be done about that now, and I make a silent vow to never affect him like this again. I level the file on the desktop and go for the door.
Deadened eyes are lackluster, devoid of the usual spark that takes over whenever he looks at me. He sticks his hand out. “All finished?”
“Yes, sir.” I pass it.
“I think we can go home, then.” He nods to the elevator doors.
Honestly, I'm in no mood to share an elevator ride with Brexton, but I'm also not about to kick up more dust by refusing. I grab my purse and walk out of the office, following his lead as we close shop.
He allows me to step in first. I shuffle a step or two behind him after we face the doors, giving him space. Or maybe I'm the one who needs the distance, since even with him mad at me, my stomach is still coiling for him. There’s a tingle in my fingertips, daring me to touch him, so I’m staying away and out of his line of sight.
“You’re positive everything’s in here?” he asks, looking at the doors.
“Yes, sir. I promise you'll have all the papers you asked for.”
There’s no response, only stiff silence. His brown briefcase snaps open and shut as he tucks the folder inside. He smashes the button for the entry floor and remains staring ahead while we descend.
I need a distraction. Anything from this after we start the 58-floor joy ride. Kitty. I haven't seen Kitty since I left. Good tea and girl talk are in order. I pull out my phone, opening our text thread.
Then the elevator jolts, and everything goes black.
I scream. It’s a shriek I don’t fully recognize as mine until I realize the pain in my lungs and throat. It rings so distant; same for my phone and purse crashing to the floor. They seem like light thunks.
The only things I fully register are the gasps I take as the secure, strong hands of Brexton grasp around me. His body heat floods through me. I tuck myself away into the welcomed touch, shivering, tears cutting at my eyes.
“It's all right.” His voice is the quietest I’ve heard. It’s soothing as he takes a deep breath against me. “It's only a power outage. It happens sometimes.” He cinches around my waist, securing me into him. “I promise it will come back on.”
I can’t help but reprimand myself. Stupid—what grown woman is afraid of dark elevators? I’m also equally as helpless to stop my fears.
I blame the mental play this brings. It stems from a time when Lonnie locked me in his closet for hours while my mom and Pat weren't home. Headless barbies and cut up dolls with missing eyes and stitched mouths were strewn everywhere. All he said through the crack of the door was…
“Little doll, are you having fun with your toys? I tried to find ones that look like you, but I couldn’t, so they had to be punished.”
That was the summer before I moved out for good, but I didn’t take action soon enough. Now I hate small, dark spaces, and I can’t fight all the memories it’s bringing back.
An eerie groan sings through the space, and I’m not sure if it’s my imagination or a real sound of metal and gears. It simply sends me deeper into Brexton as I try to take a deep breath but hyperventilate instead. My inhales are nothing, while my exhales are short bursts.