He doesn’t immediately comply, so I sharpen my voice.
"I mean it. I’m changing clothes now, including my bra. Wall, and no turning around.”
Enough of his profile’s visible that I can see him trying to hold back whatever thoughts he's having. But after a beat, he does as I asked and slowly turns his face away from me. Out of an abundance of caution, I pivot too, so we’re back to back as I unhook my serviceable bra and let it slide down my shoulders. The cold air on my nipples must shake something loose because I draw in a long breath, then exhale something I should have said a long time ago.
"I am sorry, you know. About the audit. And the alley. And all of it.”
I’m met with absolute stillness from the other side of the room, so I risk a glance over my shoulder, aware that my bare back is exposed to him. He still hasn’t turned around, but there’s a coiled wariness in him that wasn't there before.
“We don’t have to?—“
“Wyatt.” I cut him off. “Just shut up and listen for once in your life.”
If anything, his shoulders tense even more, but he does what I ask.
“I need you to know what really happened. That night…” I blow out a breath. “God, that night.” My laugh’s a weak, quavery thing as I grab my plunging push-up bra. “I was so hurt and pissed and disappointed when I left the bar, and I knew what I was doing was awful, but I… I wanted to hurt you for seeming so perfect and then taking it all away." My voice breaks, and I risk a glance to see if he noticed, but I’m still met with his unyielding back. “So I added all the worst, most punishing recommendations I’d never even considered before then. I regretted it the instant I uploaded it to the work server.”
“I’m sure the guilt kept you up all night.”
I don’t hear any sarcasm in his voice, and for a beat, I wonder if he actually does believe me. The hope could kill me if I let it, so instead, I say quietly, “Please. Let me finish.”
He shuts up, and I turn back around. I’d like my tits covered for this part, so I slide the straps up my arms and start working on the hooks in back.
“After I deleted the bad audit, I couldn’t shake the feeling that something was off with the information Howard sent me. That’s when I really dug in and saw the way he’d manipulated the numbers. Hidden data, cherry-picked results. And I’m guessing your division wasn’t actually too busy to meet with me, right? That was Howard wanting to control the narrative?”
I turn my head and catch his nod. “Correct,” he says in a clipped tone.
“I figured, especially when he insisted on using my nuclear audit and made sure I got fired so I couldn’t raise the many, many red flags I was about to discover.”
“That’s just like Howard,” he says in a disgusted voice. “He used you to try to get what he wanted, but he had no idea that you and I would meet while it was going on and…”
“And.” I laugh sadly. “That pretty much covers it. I spent the first month of my unemployment obsessively researching Sounder and your division, and that’s when I wrote that third audit confirming everything you told me that night.”
“CJ…”
Wyatt’s voice sounds closer, and I glance over my shoulder to see him start to turn around, then whip his head back to the wall, having apparently realized that I’m still in nothing but a bra and my too-short elf skirt.
Whatever. I’m as emotionally naked as it gets, so it doesn’t matter anymore. I turn so I’m facing him again, drinking in the hard lines of his body.
“I’m sorry I wrote the bad audit. I’m sorry you saw it. I’m sorry it made your life harder. And I’m sorry that Reese stole the good one and made my life harder.”
I unzip my elf skirt and slide it over my hips, letting it pool at my feet as Wyatt says, “So that’s why you shoved me into Lake Beaucoeur. It wasn’t that I had a girlfriend. It was that she’s the one who stole your work and made me think?—”
He clamps down on whatever he was about to say, but the honesty keeps pouring out of me.
“Oh, it was also that you had a girlfriend.” I swallow hard. “You told me it’d never been that way with anyone else, but a year later, you’re all smug about being in love? It felt like I’d been r-replaced.” I choke out that last word and shake my head in embarrassment. “Like it hadn’t been special, what we had. And that was after I’d spent a full year convincing myself that it hadn’t been special. I was pissed at you, pissed at her. Pissed at myself.”
He spins around, and whatever he’s about to say dies on his lips. His hot, brown eyes drop from my face to my breasts, encased in my prettiest bra—all satin and lace and the best hoisting, lifting, push-up technology known to womankind. Then that intense gaze slides lower and snags on the matching lace at the apex of my thighs.
I should feel horribly exposed, with all of my body on display. I should be squirming under his gaze and rushing to pull on my party dress. Instead, I feel like I’ve shed more than my clothes. I’m peeling away the layers of miscommunication and half-truths that have clung to us for years.
Then Wyatt blinks and gives a sharp shake of his head, like he’s pulling himself out of a trance.
“What was in the note?”
When his eyes meet mine, the vulnerability rushes in, and I snap, "Turn around.”
"Fucking tell me," he bites out.
