Chapter Thirteen
Olivia
“Was that really necessary?” I ask, quiet enough that it doesn’t carry past the bar.
“Yes,” he says, then catches himself. “He was being… too charming.”
I let myself look at him. He’s in navy, crisp enough to cut paper, tie straight, posture saying absolutely nothing. The only tell is the way his hand sits half-fisted on the rail. His eyes aren’t on my face. They’re on the scarf. He drags them up a second later, like he knows I noticed.
I unclench my fingers from around my pen. “Charm is part of the job,” I say, deliberately keeping my tone even. “And I know how to do that job. Or do you doubt that?”
Something flickers in his face quickly, then disappears just as fast. If I didn’t know him, I’d miss it. But I do. Or I’m starting to. He almost flinches. The words from last night sit between us.
Are you going to fire me?
You’re the best damn coordinator I’ve ever worked with.
He clears his throat. “I don’t doubt it.” His eyes dip, then return to mine. “He was veering off the runway. I nudged him back.”
“By making it seem like I couldn’t control the conversation.” I slide the pen up the pad’s spiral and set the pad aside. “By answering questions meant for me.”
“He was aiming the answers at you and hedging the numbers.” His voice is low, controlled. “I’d do the same for any one of my employees.”
And there it is. Employee.
My shoulders go tight. The scarf feels hotter at my throat.
I slide off the stool and keep the motion efficient and practiced, like this conversation isn’t tearing me apart.
“Noted.” I smooth the front of my blouse and tuck the pen in the pad’s wire. “I can handle my job, Roberto. If you think I can’t, you might as well fire me so I can stop wasting both of our time.”
His jaw tightens. “Olivia—”
“I have work.” I hook the legal pad under my arm, reach for the sample box Marco left, and step past him.
“Wait.” The word is soft, uncharacteristically so. I feel it tingling at the base of my spine. “Please.”
I stop, but I don’t turn. A breath. Two. I rotate just enough to give him my profile. The scarf pulls slightly when I swallow.
His hands are empty and open at his sides. He looks like a man who regrets walking into the room in the first place. “I shouldn’t have said it like that,” he says. “I shouldn’t have stepped in at all.”
“Like what?” I ask, throat dry.
His mouth works once, like he’s practicing his words before saying them. “Like you’re just another employee.”
I keep my eyes on the far window for a count of three. Then I turn fully. “I’m not,” I say. “I’m your coordinator. I’m good at this. And I don’t need rescuing from an overly friendly salesman.”
He absorbs the words with a small nod. “You’re right,” he says. “I’m sorry. I didn’t like the way he was enjoying your time instead of answering you. I reacted. That’s not an excuse. It’s the reason. And it’s not good enough.”
“You’re the one who set these boundaries,” I remind him. “What happened here,”—I tip my chin back toward the bar—“was not that.”
He breathes in once, deep, then out. “No,” he admits. “It wasn’t.”
I rest the sample box back on the bar and finally face him squarely.
“You can’t have it both ways,” I whisper. “You can’t ask for distance and then step in whenever you feel likeit. Women in my position already have a hard time getting respect from salesmen. You can’t undermine me in front of someone I’ll be doing long-term business with. Marco was a bit too cheesy, but he was respectful. Now, I don’t know what I’ll be getting the next time I have to deal with him.”
He opens his mouth to speak, but I cut him off. “And you can’t step in and fix it, demand his respect for me. It’ll only make the problem worse.”
