“Corrine,” he says, his voice soft. “Where is that beautiful smile of yours?”
My stomach continues its fall, but this time all the way to the floor.
“What reason do you have to frown on a beautiful day like this?”
Closing my eyes, I breathe deeply through my nose. The man can’t even be bothered to come up with a synonym forbeautifulwhen he’s being creepy. For the span of this breath, I can’t decide what is more off-putting: the unoriginality or the sexual harassment.
I pull my glasses down over my eyes and shuffle the papers in front of me to seem busier than I am. I glance up. Richard’s brown eyes assess me. I can still feel them even when I look away.
My skin crawls; the harassment is definitely more off-putting.
I can’t pinpoint when he stopped seeing me as his protégé, partner even, and started looking at me differently. It was after my internship, after I’d put in time as a junior associate and had proven myself. It happened so slowly I can’t say for sure it was this day or that time. I just know that when he did, it started tofeeldifferent. Or maybe he’d always looked at me that way and I’d never noticed before, too caught up in my own hero worship.
I know when he’s looking at me now. I can feel it like a touch, just not the kind I want.
He pulls out the chair in front of my desk and sits down, crossing his ankle over his knee. His patent leather shoe gleams so bright, it’s like it’s smiling at me. He’s the picture of calm, a king in someone else’s kingdom. He leans back and folds his hands over his flat abdomen and crisp white Oxford shirt. His broad shoulders fill out the dark gray suit. He keeps himself in great shape. He easily passes for ten years younger than his midfifties.
“You seem shaken up. Talk to me, Corrine.”
I press my lips together—the closest I can get to a smile—and shake my head. Anything not to have to talk about my intern.
“Is it about your mother and her health, Corrine?”
Actually, no. Anything butthat.
The panic I was feeling before boils over. I shake my head a little harder, press my lips a little tighter.
“I was trying to think of something I could do to help or at least distract you.”
The sympathy in his eyes, his tone, ratchets up but it’s contrived, his idea of what concern looks like rather than what it really is.
I pry my lips apart. “That’s not necessary, Richard. We don’t even have the biopsy results yet. There’s no point in worrying about it until we know what we’re dealing with.”
It’s a lie. Of course I’m worrying.
I want desperately to be able to deal with my mother’s potential cancer diagnosis with the rationality and practicality I deal with everything else, like work. At least then I’d feel some semblance of control over any of this. But I’m not sure that’s possible.
“Nonetheless.”
He leans forward, reaching across the desk to place his palm over my hand. His skin is like a scratchy old blanket. One you might find in a cheap roadside motel. One you don’t want to fall asleep under.
I glance toward the door because in this moment I would give anything for an interruption. Even one from Wesley Chambers.
But the door stays shut.
“I thought, you know what would be a good distraction for our sweet Corrine?”
My nostrils flare as I take a deep breath and try to ignore the casual sexism dripping off of this man. Emily is right (she almost always is). I shouldn’t put up with this behavior from Richard. But in every scenario where I put my foot down, I see his support go up in smoke. I’ve never gone out of my way to ingratiate myself with most of the team here. I care about results, not what you did on the weekend. And I’ve never had to care because Richard always had my back. He’s banking on that loyalty now because when you owe your career to someone, there’s a lot you’ll put up with.
“What if you managed the softball team this year?”
He smiles as he says it, his face lighting up as if he’s come up with a million-dollar idea. “We’re always trying to get you to participate, what with your speed.”
For some reason, Richard thinks that because I run marathons, I’m fast. I guess technically I am, but speed over distance doesn’t really translate to speed between bases.
“And you’re so...” His eyes travel over my body. I wish I had the guts to face him head-on in moments like this. “Nimble.”
“Richard,” I say slowly, trying to piece together new excuses. “I’m quite busy.”
