by Noelle Adams
He laughs. It’s a real laugh. Not much more than a breathy chuckle, but a real laugh nonetheless.
I’m ridiculously proud of myself for the victory.
“I do drink too much coffee,” he admits. “My mom is always lecturing me about it. But most of the time it’s just out of habit. I don’t even realize what I’m doing.”
“Your mom lectures you?” I ask, genuinely curious. I’m standing near his desk, watching him as he eats.
“Yes. She lectures me. Why are you surprised?”
“I don’t know. You don’t seem like the kind of guy who’d have a mom who lectures him.”
“Well, she does. You wouldn’t believe the number of lectures I get from her.”
“Do your folks live close by?”
“What? Oh yeah. They live in Milford. I grew up here. I worked in Richmond for a long time, but I moved back here a few years ago because my folks are getting older. They needed family close by, and I’m all they’ve got.”
“Really? That’s why I’m here too. My mom broke her leg and needed someone to help. I’m an only child, and her husband died a few years ago, so it’s me.”
“But you’re just here temporarily, right? You’re going to go back to finish your PhD.”
“Yeah. Next semester, as long as my mom is better.”
We stare at each other for a minute, and I get this heavy feeling of bonding in my stomach.
As if I know him now. As if I like him.
Maybe I like him too much.
I clear my throat and glance toward the door. “Anyway, I’ll be working on that report. Let me know if you need anything.”
“Yep.” He’s got a triangle of his sandwich in his hand as he turns back toward his computer. But he adds, “Thanks for lunch. I do feel better.”
I’m smiling as I walk back to my desk.
IT’S ON WEDNESDAY OF the following week before we have another conversation on anything other than work.
On Tuesday, I have a bad night. My mom ends up with a stomach virus of some kind, and she’s sick for most of the night. Because she can’t get up or get around easily, I spend the night cleaning up after her.
I’m exhausted and headachy when I get ready for work the next morning. I feel terrible for my mom—who actually had to live through the whole ordeal—but I’m also relieved when her friend arrives at seven in the morning, which frees me to leave for campus.
So then I feel guilty about feeling relieved.
Liam has meetings scheduled for most of the morning, which he hates but which means I’ll have several quiet hours before lunch. Taking phone messages and slowly deciphering his scrawlings from a meeting he had yesterday so I can write them legibly into a memo sounds wonderful to me after the night I just had.
I see him only briefly first thing in the morning. He’s in a rush and mutters out instructions about four different calls I’m supposed to make and a meeting I’m supposed to schedule with eight different people—all of which will get in the way of the quiet morning I was planning. It bears repeating. I hate making phone calls. The thought of calling up four people I don’t know and explaining things to them that they might not want to hear and asking them for information they might not want to give me is at the bottom of my list of things I’d prefer to do, so I start by scheduling the meeting. That’s a hassle, but I can do it by email.
Afterward, I tell myself I have to make one of the calls before I do anything else, so I steel up my nerves and do it. To my delight, I get the voice mail of May Waverly, the woman who coordinates the student organizations on campus, so I leave her a brief message and ask her to call me back.
The first call is managed so quickly and easily that I get cocky and immediately make the second call.
This one actually has a person answer, and I feel awkward and self-conscious as I ask for the numbers Liam needs. Roger is the chair of the math department, and he keeps overspending his budget. He’s in his late sixties and clearly from a different time. He’s patronizing in an obnoxious way when he first answers the phone. When he figures out why I’m calling, he gets defensive—which might be only natural in this situation, but he definitely doesn’t handle it in the right way. He’s rude and disrespectful. Despite his attitude, I try to be polite and sensitive but instead come across as almost apologetic, which makes me mad at myself and I know Liam won’t approve.
But the call finally ends, and I spend an hour recovering by interacting with nothing but my computer and Liam’s scribbled notes.
May Waverly returns my call then, and she’s an exceptionally nice, friendly person. I have a good conversation with her. I get all the information I need for Liam. And she wants to know all about me and how I’m enjoying working at Milford so far. We end up planning to have lunch together next week.
I feel a little better after that, but wrangling people’s schedules to finalize the meeting soon takes care of my improved mood.
Liam returns from his third meeting of the day just after eleven thirty. He looks as tired and frustrated as I’ve felt for most of the day. When he left the office this morning, he was wearing a black suit jacket, but he must have left it somewhere because he doesn’t have it now. His sleeves are rolled up to the elbows, revealing the dark hair on his forearms. I’m not sure why I notice them so much. Forearms aren’t supposed to be a particularly sexy part of a man’s body, but for some reason I really like the looks of his. He wears a big watch that looks expensive. He doesn’t wear any rings. He has no visible tattoos.
“Messages?” he barks after stopping in front of my desk.
“A few. Nothing that sounded too urgent. I’ve called May Waverly and Roger Hilton. Here’s what I got from them.” I hand him a sheet of paper with the information neatly written on it.
He starts to head toward his office as he scans the page, but he turns around before he gets halfway. “This isn’t all I needed from Roger.”
“I know, but that’s what he told me.” I was hoping it would be enough. I should have known better. I start to get that hot wave that always washes over me when I feel like I’ve done something wrong.
“Didn’t you push for the answers I need?”
“Yes, I pushed. I did the best I could.” My voice is cool, but I don’t feel that way. I hate not doing a good job. I really want to sink into the floor, and it’s worse because I want Liam in particular to be impressed with me.
“Well, it wasn’t very good if this is all he gave you.” He’s scowling down at the page, but it feels like he wants to aim that scowl at me.
“I’m sorry, but I did the best I could. I’m a temporary assistant. He’s a department chair. What did you expect me to do? Threaten to beat him up if he didn’t give the answers I wanted?” My voice is far sharper than I usually use because I’m exhausted from lack of sleep and stressed about the unsuccessful call.
“You were calling for me. That should have been enough.” He’s still looking at the piece of paper and not at me.
I stand up, suddenly incredibly frustrated and wanting to get his attention. The least he could do is look at me when he’s making me feel completely useless. “Clearly you haven’t had many conversations with Roger Hilton if you think I’d be able to get everything you needed from him.”
“Kelly never had any—”
“I’m not Kelly.” I never interrupt. I never speak so vehemently. I’m not loud—we’re still in a shared suite in a professional context—but I’m forceful. I’m not sure what’s gotten into me, but I can see myself as if from outside my body, and I’m shocked that I’m actually saying this. “I’m a temp, and Roger doesn’t know me from Adam. If you knew him at all, you’d know all he’s going to do is metaphorically pat me on the head like a cute little girl and leave the real work to the men. So if you need more information from him, you’re going to have to do it yourself.”
Liam is definitely angry with me. I can see it in the flash of his eyes and the clench of his jaw. He’s breathing heavily. His sh
oulders rise and fall with it. His cheeks are slightly flushed.
And ludicrously I’m more attracted to him than ever. I really want to grab him. Haul him down into a kiss. Rub myself all over his body.
Needless to say, I don’t.
“Where’s the information from George and Jennifer?” He’s not really scowling now. Evidently he only scowls when he’s not really angry, and he’s genuinely angry now. His lips are tightly pressed together.
“I haven’t had a chance to call them yet.”
“Why the hell not? What have you been doing all morning?”
“I’ve been working.” I’m seriously about to cry now—an unavoidable symptom of being this angry—but I hold the tears back. “If you needed them done first thing, you should have told me.”
“Well, do them now.” He stares at me for a few more seconds, and there’s some sort of unnamed tension shuddering in the air between us. Then he turns on his heel and strides into his office, closing the door with unnecessary force.
I collapse into my chair and take a few deep breaths, determined not to cry.
No wonder he can’t keep a temp. The man is completely unreasonable. Imagine treating someone who’s trying her best the way he treated me.
I’m a temp, for God’s sake! What kind of miracles does he expect from me?
I haven’t had time to mentally review the list of his sins even once when his office door suddenly flies open. He stomps back over to me, looking even tenser than before. “What did you mean?” he demands gruffly.
I stare up in confusion. “What?”
“What did you mean he patted you on the head like a little girl?” His voice is low but fierce.
I suddenly realize he’s not angry with me anymore. “Nothing,” I manage to get out. “Noth— It’s nothing. Some men are just like that.”
“Like what?” He’s leaning over, so urgent that my breath hitches in my throat. “Did he say something inappropriate to you?”
“No, no, no.” I’m flushing hotly now, torn between embarrassment over this becoming a thing and instinctive pleasure at him getting riled up this way over me. “It wasn’t anything like that. He was just patronizing. Some men are like that. It’s annoying but not... not... not a big deal. He just didn’t want to give me the information.”
Liam stares at me for a long time, and I have no idea what he sees in my face. Then he mutters, “I’m going to talk to him.”
“It wasn’t a big deal!” I call out after him, but he ignores me.
I collapse against the back of my seat and try to pull myself together, but I haven’t quite done so when Cindy comes over to talk to me.
“What on earth happened?” she asks in a hushed tone, sitting down in the one side chair at my desk. “I’ve never seen Liam riled up like that before.”
“Really? I thought he was always temperamental.” I say that mostly as a stall, unsure what I should tell the other woman about what just happened.
“No, not at all. He’s curt. And crabby. Not friendly at all. But he never gets riled up. What happened?”
“It wasn’t anything really. Just a conversation I tried to have with a department chair that didn’t go well. He’s going to... to pick up the slack.”
“Well, he sure seems passionate for something that isn’t anything really.” Cindy is giving me a little smile. “He must really like you.”
“Like me? He just chewed me out for not doing a good job.”
“Are you kidding? When he left just now, he wasn’t mad at you. It was more like he was rushing to your rescue.”
“What?” My cheeks are burning even more than ever, and I rub my face in an attempt to hide the blush. “That’s ridiculous.”
“I don’t think so. I’m telling you the truth. I’ve never seen him this riled up about anything, and I’ve worked with him for four years. This is going to be interesting to watch.”
“There’s nothing to watch!” I would say more, but she’s already returning to her own desk.
My mind is in such an uproar that I know I can’t be trusted to sit and work quietly. Who knows what dangerous routes my brain would steer me into? So instead I screw up the courage to make the last two remaining calls. For one, I’m able to leave another voice mail, and the other one is a brief, polite conversation that doesn’t add to my current stress load.
So I have the results of the calls jotted down neatly on a sticky note when Liam returns to the suite. He doesn’t look angry anymore, nor does he look like anything has been resolved.
Mostly, he just looks grumpy.
I hand him the note without comment. He was rude to me, and he doesn’t deserve polite conversation.
He reads it, mumbling out a “Thanks” before he strides into his office.
Well, fine. If he doesn’t want to talk to me or apologize for how he treated me or give me the end result of his confrontation with Roger Hilton, then that’s his business.
I’m certainly not going to ask.
I guard his door for the rest of the afternoon. He never actually asks me to, but I recognize his mood and know he’s not going to want to be bothered by anyone.
At four forty-five, I’m ready with a smile and a polite request to come back later to see Liam when a slim, attractive, gray-haired woman approaches my desk. She’s carrying a paper shopping bag and a big purse.
“You must be Polly,” she says with a smile. She’s got lovely chocolate-brown eyes.
“I am,” I say, standing up to shake the hand that the older woman extends. “Polly Jeffries.”
“I’m Carla. I’m here to see Liam.”
“Oh, I’m sorry.” My voice is genuinely apologetic since this woman seems so kind and friendly. “He’s busy this afternoon. He’s not seeing anyone.”
She laughs. “I think he’ll see me. He called me earlier.” She shifts the bag in her hand so she can open it and show me what’s inside. “He asked me to get this for you.”
I gasp in surprise and look into the bag to see a bakery box from Good Eats, the only gourmet shop in the county. “Wh-what?”
“They’re cupcakes. But don’t tell him I told you.” She snickers. “He wouldn’t be happy at all if he knew I told you he sent his mom to bring you an apology gift.”
I’m so shocked and delighted by this revelation that I have no idea what to say. I just stare at her speechlessly.
She laughs again. “He’s got a really good heart. He’s just afraid of letting anyone see it. Ever since his wife died.”
“He had a wife who died?” I hug my arms to my chest.
“Yes. Several years ago. It was a terrible tragedy. And ever since, he doesn’t let anyone in. But Polly, please hear this. Don’t believe the things he says. Believe the things he does.” She straightens up quickly from her conspiratorial pose when Liam’s office door swings open.
“Polly,” Liam calls out as it opens. “My mom is supposed to—”
“Your mom is already here,” Carla says, walking over to greet Liam as he steps out. “I was just introducing myself to Polly. She’s a lovely young woman.”
I blush some more, flustered and emotional and completely incapable of saying anything lucid.
Liam looks from his mother to me and then back again, as if he suspects something happened but doesn’t know what it might be. Then he nods and gestures his mom into the office, closing the door behind them.
I sit back down in my desk chair and giggle stupidly.
Carla leaves after no more than five minutes, no longer carrying the shopping bag as she exits. She waves to me and says, “I hope I’ll see more of you, Polly.”
I manage to force out some sort of response, still rattled by the events of the day.
A few minutes later, just as I’m getting ready to leave, Liam comes out and drops the bakery box onto my desk.
I look down at it and then look up at him, my eyes wide.
“Those are for you,” he mumbles. “Cupcakes. They’re good.”
�
��Cupcakes?”
“Sorry. About before.”
“Oh.” I’m trembling just a little, and it’s the silliest thing. “Thank you. For these. You didn’t have to. You could have just said sorry.”
“I am saying sorry. Now.” He shifts from foot to foot, looking like he wants to be anywhere but here. He’s been staring at a blank spot on my desk, but he lifts his gaze now to meet mine.
I smile at him. “Thank you,” I say again. “For the apology. And the cupcakes. It’s all fine.”
“Good.” He nods as if he’s gotten it settled in his mind now. “See you tomorrow.”
And that’s it. He disappears into his office, and I sit down at my desk to finish out my workday. I only have five minutes left.
BY THE TIME I’VE FINISHED going through the email that’s come in since I last checked, it’s five minutes after five. I close down my computer, clear my desk, and get my purse out of my bottom drawer where I keep it. After picking up the box of cupcakes, I tap on Liam’s door.
“I’m taking off,” I say, sticking my head into his office.
He looks away from his computer at the sound of my voice. “Okay. You need some help getting those to the car?”
I glance down at the bakery box. It’s larger than it needs to be so as to protect the beautiful frosting on the cupcakes. But it’s certainly not so large that it’s difficult for me to carry. “Oh no. I’ll be f—”
Before I can get the whole word out, Liam has come over to the door and taken the box out of my hands. “I’ll walk you.”
My lips part slightly, and my heartbeat accelerates. “You don’t need to—”
“I said I’ll walk you,” he grumbles with a faint scowl.
With a little snicker I try unsuccessfully to hide, I accept his help getting the cupcakes out to my car and walk beside him out the suite.
He doesn’t speak for a minute or two as we leave the building. I peer at his face, but it’s difficult to read.
Without warning, his eyes shoot over to my face, catching me staring. “We’re okay?”