by Evie Claire
Steve was an asshole. But he was still her supervisor. At least until she closed this deal. Then she’d be his equal, at least, and she could tell him to fuck off without any chance of retribution. That glorious day was one she dreamed about.
“Maybe you aren’t trying hard enough.” Steve stepped farther into her office, staring out the window at Phebe’s back, squinting his eyes like he was trying to think of a redeemable quality she possessed that might be of use in such a situation. Then his brows quirked up in an Aha! moment and focused back on her. “Some men respond better to a different type of persuading,” he whispered, as if this were an ancient, earth-shattering secret he was sharing.
The next few seconds unfolded like hours for Phebe. All the long hours she’d put in to succeed in a man’s world. All the extra effort to ensure no one ever discounted her ability. All of it, in a few single seconds, flew right out that gleaming office window. Poof!
Steve’s lips quirked up, but his eyes strayed lower. Like fucking nails hammering into her flesh, they tracked down her face, along her neck, and stopped with dangerous accuracy…on her tits. “Your pretty face and a little extra cleavage might do the trick. Hell, you could even expense a hotel room if you needed it,” he said, whispering again, and winked.
Phebe stood frozen, paralyzed. Unable to move or think or even process the level of degradation her life had just slipped to. In such shock, she couldn’t even raise a hand to cover herself from his stares. Not that she was showing anything that needed covering. She never sexualized herself at work. Mainly to keep creeps like him away. And now this?
“Aw, come on, Phebe, you know I’m kidding!” Steve laughed heartily, like he was just pulling her leg. He even slapped his own leg for effect. It was what he did—made an outlandish comment and then played it off as a joke. “You do great work around here. We’re all so proud of you!” This next part he said loudly, his head turned half into the hallway for everyone’s benefit but her own. Only his eyes weren’t laughing. They stared like frozen stones right through her, cuttingly aware of what he’d just done.
Phebe closed her eyes. Disbelief scraped over her like an iceberg. She shook her head, focused on her breathing, and bodily function slowly returned. When she finally opened her eyes, he was gone.
* * *
—
The next second, so was she.
“Wait, where are you?” The concerned voice of Phebe’s best friend, Marie, curled out of her cellphone like a hug.
Instead of heading straight to HR after her boss’s mental undressing, Phebe had gone two floors down to avoid running into her coworkers. She needed time to think.
“In the bathroom,” Phebe said like it wasn’t a big deal. She peered in the mirror and noticed an unruly eyebrow hair. Inside, she was absolutely seething. Outside, she remained steady. Because she was too strong to let words break her. Sticks and stones and all that. No one got under her skin. She didn’t get mad. She got even…when the time was right.
“Why the hell aren’t you on your way to Human Resources to report the creep?”
“First of all, I don’t expect anything more from him. He’s a total douchebag. Second, I don’t have time right now to waste on the inevitable shit show reporting something like this causes. And third, I’m not the kind of person who’s going to lose sleep over something like this. If he does it again, the tip of my stiletto is going to meet his crotch. Problem solved.”
“And then you’ll be the one written up to HR.” Marie’s advice was sound. As a former attorney, she knew how these things worked. That was the main reason Phebe had called her when she fled the scene of the crime. “You should contact Brent. His firm has an excellent sexual harassment team.” Marie traded depositions for diapers after baby number two. But Phebe’s situation was enough to get her attorney’s brain right back on track.
“No, I’m not sure what I want to do yet. I really need to get this project finished before I invite anything else into my life.” Phebe licked a pinkie and smoothed down the unruly brow. “I mean if life were fair, I’d get to rip his fucking head off with my bare hands in a gladiator-style battle to the death, but…” Phebe sounded as if she were shrugging it off, only her jaw was clamped down so tightly on her inner cheek, her saliva turned metallic.
“Well, I’m taking the kids to Jenn’s for a playdate this afternoon. If Brent gets home from work while I’m there, I’ll mention it to him.”
Phebe sighed. Is that what she wanted? Half of her friend circle knowing she had been sexually harassed at work? No, not exactly. It wasn’t something she was proud of, but it also wasn’t something she was particularly bothered by, either. Pissed, yes. Persecuted, not really. The only thing that did bother her was that her silence enabled Steve to act the same way to someone else. Someone who might lose sleep over it.
“Um, okay. Though ask them to be quiet about it until I decide what I want to do.”
“Of course. But just in case, when we hang up, send me a text about what happened. Then also send me an email detailing the entire confrontation. If you move forward, you will need documentation. Is this the first incident?”
“God no. He’s ridden my ass since the day I started. But this is the first time it’s been of a sexual nature. And he didn’t say anything that anyone could hear. He whispered it. The only thing he said loudly enough to be overhead was his normal douchebaggery.”
“Do you hear yourself?” Marie paused, getting Phebe’s attention and letting her question sink in. “He sexually harassed you and you’re making excuses.”
Phebe looked in the mirror, gritted her teeth, swallowed metallic spit, and sighed again. “Yeah.” The word was low and slow. “It’s just something else to deal with. You know? I shouldn’t have to.” Phebe rubbed at her temple and stared at the floor.
“Leave the office for a while. Go get some fresh air.”
“I’m going to a noon CrossFit class. Pretend the kettlebell is his smug face.” Phebe clenched a fist, already imagining the force she’d put into today’s workout.
“Good for you! And Jenn told me you have a date with one of Brent’s friends tonight. Right?”
“Ohhhhh…riiiiight.” Phebe face-palmed. Caught up in the emotions of her ridiculous morning, she’d forgotten that. CrossFit made her look like a drowned cat. Drowned cats were far from the sexy beast one hoped to be on a first date—a first blind date. Not to mention Phebe had gotten up early to get a professional blowout, on Jenn’s suggestion, of course. “I guess CrossFit is out, then.”
“Take yourself to lunch somewhere nice. Or go get your nails done. Anything. Just clear your head.” Marie’s tone was reassuring. It always had been, but was even more so now that she was a mother. “After you send me the text and email.” It was also full of parental authority when it needed to be.
“Yes ma’am!” Phebe barked sarcastically. “I will.” She saluted herself in the bathroom mirror for effect.
“Hey, I’m real sorry about this. I know you always let it roll off your back, but it’s still a sucky situation.”
“Thanks, girl. You know I’m tough enough to handle it.” Phebe snort-laughed like it was nothing.
“Hugs.” Marie’s voice ticked up, telling Phebe it was time to get off the phone.
Phebe didn’t do touchy-feely emotions particularly well. Actually, she didn’t do them at all. She pressed the red button on her phone, took a deep breath, and examined her reflection in the mirror.
No, she wasn’t going to let Steve get away with it. She wasn’t exactly sure how she would ensure he didn’t, but she did know exactly how she’d straighten her mind out right now.
Salted. Caramel. Everything.
Chapter 3
Phebe
Glowing like a neon beacon down the block, one that announced the mother of all midmorning indulgences was ready for the taking, Phebe saw
the sign and her anger instantly softened. Hot—Now illuminated a darkened window in bright red letters, its siren song of sin just a few yards away. God bless Krispy Kreme. Sugary, carby, empty-calorie heaven. A sugar binge and a salted-caramel latte were almost hers. That would certainly soften a girl’s wrath. At least for now.
Phebe slid on her sunglasses and pushed through the double glass lobby doors. On the sidewalk, a soft breeze lifted her hair from her face and the weight of the morning from her shoulders.
Still, it wasn’t enough to erase it completely. Hell, Clorox couldn’t clean that degree of ickiness. She couldn’t believe Steve’s nerve. Anyone with a brain cell between their ears knew how committed she was to her job. The countless late nights, the work lunches, the early morning conference calls before the sun came up. She’d worked hard to earn her place in a man’s world. The entire office knew that. Steve was just an asshole. And when she closed this deal—because she would close this deal—she’d finally tell him where to get off. Right into the unemployment line.
She was almost to Krispy Kreme when a distinct smell derailed her train of thought. One that stopped her cold. The high, sharp aroma of grains and grapes turned to liquid pleasure by sugar and time, with a heavy splash of hops. It made her smile, too. The sweet smell of forgetting…with half the calories. Sure, coffee and donuts would do just fine, but gin seemed infinitely better.
Hmmm…eleven forty-five. Should she? Dare she? Fuck it. Steve crossed a line first. If he was smart (which he decidedly wasn’t), he wouldn’t dare question her whereabouts after their encounter.
Phebe pushed through a heavy wood-and-leaded-glass door into The Twenty-One Guns Saloon. She’d never given much thought to the hole-in-the-wall on her office block before. It was dark inside, masking the sideways slant of midmorning sun through tinted windows. The all-wood décor, polished to a high shine, contrasted with an impressive black-and-white Art Deco tile floor, one old enough to have known the boot heels of bootleggers and patrons of Prohibition speakeasies. Nothing like the sleek upscale cocktail lounges she frequented. Antique gas-lantern lighting emitted an ambient glow. It was warm, welcoming, and blissfully quiet. A total Cheers vibe minus the chummy regulars. And, more important, everything her corner office on the forty-first floor wasn’t.
Her heels met the tile in a fast-clicking rhythm that permeated the bar’s sleepy silence. Sharp as cymbal clacks, she made her way as far from the door—and work—as she could. The last stool had her name on it. So did the half-completed New York Times crossword in her bag. She pulled it out with an addict’s admiration. Word puzzles were cheaper and a lot less mess than therapy. Crack cocaine for an overactive brain like hers. With a gin and pen in hand, she’d forget the awful morning and refocus herself for a productive afternoon.
“Double Hendrick’s on the rocks with a lime twist,” she said, when a manly mix of aftershave and black coffee wafted warmly over the bar. Bent at the waist, she was elbow-deep in her bag fishing for her phone’s Silent button when the presence stilled. Phebe looked to the wall of bottles before her, certain she was about to be told the hole-in-the-wall didn’t carry her favorite gin. It would be a disappointment, but not a travesty.
Spotting the distinctive diamond-shaped label, Phebe turned to the bartender, trying to recall the town’s antiquated liquor laws. Could they serve alcohol before noon? The question was forgotten when an unexpected palpitation quickened the blood coursing across Phebe’s chest. It wasn’t ground-quaking. But it—or rather, he—was enough to get her attention.
His eyes were the color of warm honey tinged with a mischievous bad-boy glint. A look so arresting it caused Phebe’s lips to rebel against the frown in which they were so determinedly set. Drawn further from her anger, she paused, slowly drinking in the full measure of the hottest hipster she’d ever laid eyes on. Um…what? This was uncharted territory. Facial hair wasn’t really her thing. Not since she dated a man who had more beard than personality. The experience—and the little hairs he left all over her bathroom sink—had soured her ever since.
Phebe had no problem admitting she could be wrong about beards. Because this guy…she didn’t even know where to start with him.
He was so not her type. His tight jeans and tattoo-revealing T-shirt drew a sharp contrast to her dove-gray suit and fifty-dollar blowout. But damn he was hot. Really hot. Oozing a raw sex appeal that made her wonder what he’d look like out of those clothes and tangled in her sheets. He’d aced the sexy-lumberjack style, the exact opposite of the Brooks-Brother-suit-and-Gucci-loafer types filling her useless black book.
His smile was easy and revealed an orthodontist’s wet dream nestled among the wily strands of a perfectly kempt beard. She had a brief image of those teeth tearing into a slab of beef jerky he’d cured over a fire he’d built in the wilds of Alaska while wearing a fur coat made from a bear he’d killed. With his bare hands. Because that was the kind of shit a man so manly seemed capable of. And that hair. Loose, sleek waves reached halfway down his neck and all but begged her fingers to touch them. Because his hair wasn’t an unwashed, disheveled mess like some men allowed longer hair to become. It was just…perfect.
When Phebe realized she hadn’t actually placed her ass on the stool, instead was stuck in some awkward half-squat position, she finally looked away, confused by the warmth flooding her cheeks.
“Rough day?” Hottie McBartender asked with a knowing smile.
“You have no idea.” She exhaled a halfhearted sigh of admission before collecting herself and her foolish thoughts. She was normally guarded, purposefully hard to read. Something about him, his self-assured ease maybe, disarmed her. In the bar’s soft light, her edges softened like they did when she closed her apartment door to the world outside. Given her day so far, it was everything she needed.
“Burton Holiday?” he asked, stretching to reach the top-shelf bottle of gin. The hem of his T-shirt rose just high enough to reveal an ass capable of stopping rush-hour traffic on the downtown connector…all ten lanes. And Phebe stilled again, mouth agape, undone by the revelation.
Ummmm…seriously…what? Hipsters weren’t supposed to have asses like that. Yet, even in skinny jeans, a fashion trend that never should’ve crossed into men’s clothes, his ass was a gift from God. Handed down on two golden platters. One for each edible cheek.
Phebe mentally slapped her wandering mind instead of the ass she suddenly found herself wanting to touch.
Burton Holiday, right. How would he know that?
“The suit.” He nodded at her buttoned-up appearance, answering the unasked question. “It gives you away.”
“Of course.” Phebe forced a small, tight smile, a socially acceptable Do Not Disturb sign, and turned to her puzzle. Hot as he was, she wasn’t interested in making friends. And she definitely didn’t need anything else clouding her mind. Which he definitely was. She needed to forget. Talking about BHI wouldn’t accomplish that. Obviously sensing her need for privacy, Hottie McB left her with a smile that was so genuine she winced at her rudeness. Until he returned seconds later.
“Here you go, Love.” He laid down the endearment and her cocktail with equal ease. Again, Phebe stilled, clenching the pen in her hand.
Love?
Seriously, what was it with men and her femininity? Was it the blowout? Was it some kind of mid-cycle pheromone thing? She prepared to protest. Labels like that didn’t fly in her world. But when she looked up, he was halfway down the bar and well out of earshot. Recognizing that her rage should be directed at her boss and not at a harmless comment, she let it slide and dove into her crossword.
The gin was ice cold. Its flowery undertones and dangerously gentle bite eased her mind. Concentrating on the puzzle worked its Zen magic like always. Three clues solved, a nearly empty glass, and Steve blissfully blocked from conscious thought, life looked decidedly better. So much so, she waved the bartender over to or
der a second round. Why not? She absently tapped her pen on a particularly difficult clue while she thought. It was a biggie, one that had her uncharacteristically stumped.
“Of all the gin joints in all the world, she walked into mine.” His voice melted into Phebe’s ear in a way it probably shouldn’t. He gave her another one of his sideways smiles. Phebe stilled, caught off guard by the tightening in her chest again. There was something about the guy. Something she felt. His quietly assured approach to life—and Phebe—was a dangerous thing. And then there was that bad-boy grin. One Phebe was certain he’d earned the right to use. Men shouldn’t be allowed to smile like that at anyone they pleased. At least not outside of bedroom walls. And there she was again, thinking about him and her sheets.
Damn it!
So not helping. Especially when his smile rolled farther up his face and turned into a wink. Something about the quick movement of his eye moved Phebe. It freed her from his spell. Reminded her why she was there in the first place. And then pissed her off.
Phebe sighed, unable to fathom why men seemed so hell-bent on sexualizing her today. Why they couldn’t leave her in peace instead of throwing her vagina in her face. First Steve and now this stranger.
Normally, she would’ve let it slide. Most women would fall all over themselves for attention from a man like him. But today she wasn’t most women. She was sick and damn tired of men treating her like a skirt. The work situation had to be handled delicately. This one, most decidedly, did not.
She gripped the pen in her fist until her knuckles went white, then calmly laid it on the paper, composing herself with forced, but gentle, grace. Why did he have to go there? She hadn’t spent the last half hour regaining control of her emotions only to have some bartender fuck it all up. Anger simmered in her veins. It wanted out. And it wouldn’t be pretty.