Arguing, check. Yes, that was a proper woman talk, although I may have caused it I think as I rub a hand over my aching jaw.
Chapter 4
Olivia
I run into the safety of one of the other lifts, one I can access and am relieved when the doors close, trapping me inside and him, Mr Mason Fucking Harding, outside. I am now professionally in bed with him after being in bed with him personally last night. I reach forward for the handrail of the lift and wince with a pained groan at the agony shooting through my knuckles.
“Bollocks,” I mutter to myself, wondering why I thought punching the smug, arrogant bastard was the way to go. “Because he was a smug, arrogant bastard,” I say out loud as I hurry from the building.
With a glance backwards I suddenly realise that my one-night stander is seriously rich if he owns the building and that is what he said, I’m sure. And powerful, maybe more powerful than he is rich. Trust me to pick up or allow myself to be picked up by a rich and powerful arsehole and somehow end up being employed by him, contractually obligated at least.
When I am far enough away that I feel safe from his pursuance I find an empty doorway and swap shoes before throwing my bag on my back for the jog to the station.
Once home I strip off the day’s clothes while my bath is filling. I add a dash of my very expensive bath oil that Mr Michaels bought for me, for all the female employees last Christmas. It’s translucent and smells of vanilla and amber, but is only used occasionally, for special occasions as it is expensive. I know just how expensive as I looked it up when I considered treating myself to some other variety and the bottle is tiny for the price. I recall that in contrast to the less hands on Mr Michaels, Mr Peterson bought us chocolates, to share, although he ate most of them. They really are strange bedfellows, maybe even stranger than me and Mr Harding.
Sinking into the water I briefly wonder how Mason’s face is and then chide myself for caring. My hand stings when I lower it into the water but I kind of like the pain of it. It reminds me what an idiot I have been and what a bigger idiot he is.
I will not cry, not again. I did cry when the machine at the station refused to read my travel pass and I caused a big hold up before the attendant arrived only to tell me that my library card didn’t permit me to travel. That was his fault too, bloody Mason, for getting me in such a pickle.
I am really cross with myself, for last night a little but mainly for today, being so affected by Mason in Peterson’s office and his own. “Oh God.” I throw a wet flannel over my face as I remember finding myself kissing him and ready to do so much more, on his desk of all places.
The biggest problem I am having is the fact that I really liked him last night, not so much so this morning when he seemed to enjoy my discomfort at finding myself naked with a stranger, but then in Peterson’s office when he seemed genuinely interested in my career issues I liked him again, a little more, and by the time he had his tongue in my mouth I really, really liked him and now I despise him for how he treated me and how shit I feel. I told him he disgusted me, but the truth is that I disgust myself far more than he ever could.
Actually, I may cry again, especially as I replay his words about us both going out and repeating last night’s actions because I will never do that again. It was wrong last night and is more wrong tonight, but more than that the thought of Mason going out and picking someone else up and spending the night with them, as he did with me hurts. I really should know better. After everything I’ve been through, I should never have brought him home with me.
Despite lying in the bath for an eternity I am no more relaxed when I get out than when I got in it. By the time I get into bed I am tense and find sleep to be elusive until I roll onto the other side of my bed. As my head sinks into the pillow I smell Mason, encouraging me to immediately drift off to sleep.
When the morning comes, I feel strangely rested, if a little fuzzy headed. My hand is killing me and is swollen like I can’t believe. As it’s my right hand I really hope I don’t have to write or draw anything today because I am unsure whether I can even hold a writing instrument.
I dress in black trousers and a bright red blouse, although I am unsure if the red signifies defiance, passion or simple rage. I have a pair of heeled boots thrown into my bag for when I get to Mason’s office, but for now it’s comfy trainers as comfort is my main priority when I battle rush hour on public transport. Sean text last night and offered to pick me up, but I really don’t need the added complication of Sean on my doorstep this morning. The last time he was on my doorstep he was kissing me and trying to get his hand up my top. That is when my resistance convinced him we weren’t compatible as anything more than colleagues and friends, which we kind of are now.
I am on my train by eight o’clock because I’m travelling a new route, to Mr Harding’s offices rather than my own workplace and I am nervous, for several reasons so don’t want to add to my worries by cutting it fine on times. The train is busy, but not so busy that I can’t get a seat meaning I avoid the dry humping of yesterday.
I arrive at my destination for half past eight but in my haste, I am in the lift before I realise I am still wearing my trainers forcing me to change footwear in the lift I’m sharing with a few other people. They stare at me until I look up, then they politely look away, all except one who watches me with a smile. I notice that she is wearing proper stilettos, designer ones with coloured soles and high, spindly heels. She is older than me, possibly by ten years or more, but is still attractive, striking, with pale blue eyes and auburn hair cut into a funky, short, pixie style.
“You’re not a slave to fashion then?” she asks with a soft Welsh lilt to her voice.
“Kind of, ish,” I reply, fastening my second boot before ramming my trainers into my bag. “I love heels but not for commuting. I like comfort for rush hour.”
“Nice bag,” she says and although I am certain that she wouldn’t be seen dead lugging a rucksack around on her back I don’t sense any bitchiness in her comment.
“Big and functional.” I wince as I lift my bag with my injured hand.
“Ouch, that looks sore. Should I ask how you did it?”
I really have no desire to explain my injured hand to anyone, least of all a stranger but feel I should say something.
“I might just stick to the old faithful,I walked into a cupboard.” My words and smile make her laugh.
“Oh,” she says and then stares at me and repeats, “oh,” but this time it’s as though she understands, really understands.
We get off the lift together and while she bids me goodbye, I head towards Nicola to announce my prompt, no, early arrival. I take a seat as instructed and am startled to find Mason appearing from his office. He looks even more handsome than when I last saw him and although he is several feet away from me, I am convinced I can smell him. He looks immaculate in a dark navy suit, white shirt and navy tie. He stares at me, somehow forcing me to lower my eyes.
“Miss Carrington.”
I get to my feet and face him looking for any obvious sign of a mark on his face, but there appears to be none. Nope, just me bearing the wounds of my punch.
“Come through.” He gestures to his open office door but waits for me to move before he does.
