I walked out of his office with my jaw aching from how hard I’d been clenching it.
Ethan appeared at my side before I made it back to my desk, falling into step beside me with a quiet, steady presence.
“You okay?”
“Fantastic. Never better. I’m considering a career in professional screaming.”
“I hear there’s good money in that.”
“I’ll look into it.”
He steered me toward the break room with a gentle hand on my elbow. “Coffee. You need coffee.”
“I need a new job.”
“Coffee first. Life decisions after caffeine.”
The break room was mercifully empty. Ethan made me a cup from the good stash someone had hidden in the back cabinet and handed it over with exaggerated ceremony.
“Gerald’s under pressure from above,” he said, leaning against the counter. “Budget stuff. He’s taking it out on everyone.”
“He’s taking it out on me specifically.”
“You’re new. New people are easy targets.” He shrugged. “Give it time. Once you land something big, he’ll forget he ever doubted you.”
“What if I don’t land something big?”
“You will.” He said it with such confidence that I almost believed him. “I’ve read your work from Newark. You’re good, Pauline. Really good.”
I wrapped my hands around the mug and let the warmth seep into my cold fingers. “Thanks.”
“Anytime.” He paused. “Bad weekend?”
I thought about the parking lot, about blue eyes and white t-shirts and the way my name had sounded in his mouth. About being pinned against my own car and forgetting how to breathe.
“You could say that.”
“Want to talk about it?”
“Not even a little bit.”
He nodded, accepting this without pushing. That was the thing about Ethan—he knew when to press and when to let things lie.
“Well,” he said, “if you change your mind, I’m an excellent listener. I took a class.”
“There are classes for that?”
“Community center. Wednesday nights. Very informative.”
I almost smiled.
That afternoon, Alice Pearson descended upon my desk like a blonde, impeccably dressed plague.
She dropped a folder on my keyboard without preamble. “Gang investigation. I need background research—the grunt work.”
I looked at the folder, then at her. She smiled at me with perfect teeth and perfect lipstick and absolutely no warmth whatsoever.
“You want me to do your research,” I said.
