“I am!” I cry out again. “But I’m not your scapegoat.”
I jump to my feet in a misguided attempt to level the playing field. All it really does is remind us both that he is much, much taller than me. Maybe I should pull aDead Poets Societyand get on the table?
But then I finally look in Bastian’s eyes, and something I see there takes a bit of the wind out of my sails. Not all of it—I’m still righteously pissed—but a note of concern is joining the symphony ofOh hell no he didn’tthat’s playing in my head.
“What is this really about, Bastian?” I ask, a touch quieter this time. “It feels personal.”
He scoffs. “Don’t be ridiculous.”
“Two nights ago, we were eating oysters and laughing. Wehugged.You drove me to—” I shake my head. “Look, the point is, things were fine. Now, you’re dressing me down in front of half the company for something you know damn well is not my fault.”
The fact that the phrase “dressing me down” just came out of my lips is nightmare fuel, but I pull a Taylor Swift and shake it off. Innuendo is the last thing that this grease fire of a conversation needs.
“Friday was a mistake.”
Ouch.
He used four words, but he might as well have slapped me across the face. The effect would have been the same.
I visibly recoil from him, not because I had so much emotional investment in our late night oyster not-a-date, but because the brutality of those four little words says that, even if I did feel like a teensy bit of something had changed, I’d be an absolute fucking idiot for thinking that.
“We got too comfortable,” he continues in this lifeless, monotone growl that makes this morning’s ants go deathly still. “Lines were blurred. This—” He gestures back and forth between us. “—needs to stop.”
I swallow hard. “Thiswhat,exactly?”
“You know what.”
“Say it.”
“No.”
“Why not? Afraid someone might overhear?” I gesture to the office beyond, where people are definitely watching us argue. “Or are you just a coward?”
That jaw ticks again, closer and closer to detonating. “Choose your next words very carefully, Eliana.”
God, how I wish I could.
If I could say the things I want to say, I’d want to scream that the brine of an oyster and the dulcet tones of Sir Mix-A-Lot are the only things in a long time that have made me forget about my mother, my disease, or all the myriad ways life has disappointed me.
If I could say the things I want to say, I’d say that the way his voice rasped when he told me goodnight while dropping me off has lived in my head rent-free ever since.
If I could say the things I want to say, I’d tell him about the dreams that won’t stop and the fantasies that won’t end, and I’d sayFuck the glass walls; I don’t care who sees; just please put those hands on me before one or both of us goes insane.
But I don’t say any of that, of course. I’ve spent my whole life swallowing back important things.Endure—that’s what I do best.
So that’s what I keep doing.
“Fine. You want professional? Let’s be professional.” I snatch up my tablet. “I’ll go down to the Olympus site to inspect the HVAC situation myself. I’ll document everything, get statements fromFrank and the engineers, and compile a full report on exactly where the specifications went wrong and who signed off on what.”
His eyes narrow. “That’s not necessary.”
“Oh, it’s absolutely necessary. Because if you’re going to keep implying this is my fault, I’m going to establish a paper trail that proves otherwise. My report will be on your desk by close of business today.”
I turn and start for the door. I’m aware of Bastian letting out a disgruntled sigh behind me, but I don’t look back. I just keep my head high as I march out.
I’m equally aware of the whole office watching me do a walk of shame and/or fame out of the conference room. They aren’t sure what happened. Neither am I, but I won’t let that stop me from putting on a brave face. I keep going, driving toward the elevators.
But then a familiar scent hits my nostrils, and a familiar heat warms up my side, and a familiar stride falls in sync with mine.
