Oh, Lord. Hell. Crap.
"Fuck."
I grip the sides of the sink, suddenly relieved that no other females who work on this floor feel the need for the bathroom. With a shaky move, I check the time.
It is pushing eleven, which means my fifteen-minute tea break is long over.
Thank everything vaguely holy that I don't ever take more than a few minutes, usually just grabbing some tea and taking it back to my desk, and most of the time, I don't even do that. I use it as a bathroom break. To pee, to take a breath before heading out for the rest of my day.
It is not anything more than me wanting to keep this job. I don't expect extra pay, which is good because that would never happen. I just want to stay on top of things and not do something that might lead to me losing my job.
I know I do good work, but since when has that ever done anything? You have to keep your head down, holdrecords of your work and accomplishments for when something is brought into question.
I'm aware that this is cynical, but I have seen it, with Dad.
And he died.
I doubt he thought he would wreck my life, too. Knowing him, he probably thought he was making everything better, not worse.
He might not have been the most affectionate or attentive father, but that was just him.
I know he loved me. But he still did things I never knew about. Things I don't know about. I thought he handled money and various accounts for lots of people. Finance was what he said he was in. The FBI said he was a mafia man who ripped them off and paid the price, and they wanted to know how involved I was.
The thing is, their story shifted as they tried to squeeze information I don't have, info I never had, from me.
Dad kept his working life separate.
We came from money, and then it suddenly disappeared. A lot of it was seized by the authorities.
I splash a little more water onto my cheeks, then pat them dry using a paper towel.
Thinking of Dad too much at work is a bad idea. Thinking of anything but the job I have ahead of me for the day is terrible as well.
Most of it leads back to Dad, down into grief and the tangle of self-pity and anger that knots like a heavy ball in my stomach.
Stuff like that I don't need at work. After all, there is plenty of room for that when I'm alone.
With shaking hands, I feel where the bag ends behind me. And okay, it seems to cover my ass.
Thank God for large bags.
And thanks, Universe, that I don't look a thing like Ruby. Because if that had been Ruby, every man's eyes would have noticed, and there would have been catcalls, laughter, and probably proposals of marriage, as the HR here isn't that large, and the men here don't tend to grasp regular social norms, let alone the knowledge of where the lines between sexual harassment and ribbing are.
But I would have noticed laughter. I would have gotten comments thrown at me.
So, thank fuck for the bag.
Even so, I turn and check.
It is in its place, and my skirt is definitely not hiked up.
Of course, as I straighten my shoulders and push out, making my way to my desk, I can't rid myself of the horror of that man noticing. That man commenting.
And worse, I can't scrub away the fact he just might have been the best-looking, best-smelling man ever. A blend of unsmoked tobacco and fruit. A touch of leather and the perfume of roses on a summer's eve.
Together, the scents form something intoxicating in my memory, and if I breathe in, I can almost smell it again.
And when I say he is the best-looking man ever, I mean it. Tall, elegant, dark brown almost black hair with a hint of wave in it that gives it a messy, sexy look. Almost black eyes, a full mouth, a strong Roman nose and cheekbones, and I'm betting there are muscles under the three-piece suit.
