by Tracy Wolff
I don’t understand. He’s a conundrum, a puzzle whose pieces don’t quite fit together, and the not knowing is going to drive me insane. I need to let it go, need to just put Ethan’s odd ways out of my head and go on with my life, but I’m afraid doing so is going to be much harder than it sounds. Especially when I want so desperately to figure him out.
“Why were you behind the juice bar counter yesterday, making that smoothie?” The words come out before I know I’m going to say them. “And why were you dressed like a surfer?”
“I am a surfer.”
“I know. But you’re also a CEO and this is your workplace. Board shorts seem inappropriate.”
He laughs. “You’ve obviously never seen the guys from R&D. Half the time I count myself lucky if they remember to wear clothes.”
If the R&D guys look anything like what I imagine they do, that’s an image I can definitely do without. “You didn’t answer my question.”
“You’re right, I didn’t.” For a minute I’m convinced he isn’t going to, either. But then he shakes his head ruefully. “It’s embarrassing, to be honest. The Frost Foundation gives a lot of money to ocean-centric charities, and the PR people thought it’d be a good idea to have some pictures of me surfing. Swore it would help draw more attention, and raise more money. Yesterday was the photo shoot.”
Of course. Ethan Frost the philanthropist is almost as famous as Ethan Frost the visionary. But since I can tell he really is embarrassed, I don’t comment on what he’s told me. Instead I ask, “And the smoothie making?”
“I’m very particular about my smoothies.” He looks dead serious now, which I find hilarious. I actually have to bite the inside of my cheek to keep from laughing when he continues, “Rodrigo was doing it wrong.”
“There’s really a wrong way to make a smoothie?”
His eyes gleam wickedly. “Chloe, sweetheart, there’s a wrong way to do just about everything.”
I’m almost sorry I asked. Almost.
* * *
It only takes us six or seven minutes to go between Buildings One and Three. And yet by the time we’re getting off the elevator at my floor, I’m a nervous wreck. Partly because I don’t want to face my boss and partly because everyone keeps staring at us. Yes, they’re acknowledging Ethan, calling out greetings to him, but they’re staring at me, too. Enough so that I know Ethan escorting a new employee around the premises, especially one with a bright green intern’s badge, is an unusual sight.
Too late I realize that he could have just as easily emailed my boss or had his secretary make the call. The fact that he’s hand-delivering me to the second-floor conference room makes all this feel like more than it is. More than I can let it be.
When we get to the conference room, he once again opens the door and gestures for me to precede him. He’s such a gentleman, even when I wish he wouldn’t be. It sounds cowardly, and I pride myself on facing up to my fears, but just this once, I wish he’d go in first. I can see my boss at the head of the conference table, the other seven interns I met yesterday sitting at attention on either side of her, hanging raptly on every word that she says. I’m certain none of them was even a minute late for the meeting.
Maryanne looks up the second the door opens. She doesn’t see Ethan right away because the way he’s holding the door open puts him to the left of her sightline. Which is fine—I don’t want him fighting my battles for me anyway—but the first step I take into the room feels like my first step on death row. Like I’m a dead woman walking her way straight to Frost Industries’s own version of the guillotine. Or the electric chair.
“Ms. Girard, thank you for joining us.” Maryanne’s voice rings through the room, sounding snippy and more than a little put out. “But the meeting started almost half an hour ago—”
“I kept her, Maryanne.” Ethan’s voice was charming, the look he shot my boss even more so. I don’t know what else he says to her because he crosses to where she’s sitting and speaks to her in a voice so low it becomes nothing but an indistinguishable murmur to the rest of us.
The other interns are all staring at me, some with curiosity and some with blatant hostility. I cross to one of the empty seats at the table and slide into it. My injured hip protests a little, but I ignore it. The last thing I want to do is show any weakness now.
I know that Ethan thinks he’s doing me a favor—and maybe he is, with my boss. But with the other interns all his appearance here is going to do is cause me grief. I can feel it in the assessing way the male interns are looking at me, as if they know exactly what Ethan and I were talking about earlier. The female interns aren’t as blatant—especially not Chrissy, who was my mentor yesterday, and the most welcoming of the group—but I can tell they, too, are putting the pieces together and coming up with a picture I really would rather they didn’t.
At the front of the room, Maryanne nods and smiles. Ethan steps back, says a few words to the room as a whole. Even stops to talk to a couple of the interns who are on the side closest to the door. They preen under his attention, and I know what he’s doing—he’s trying to protect me, trying to make things as easy for me as he possibly can. If him coming here with me ends up giving the other interns a chance to shine, then maybe I won’t get as much grief.
The knowledge warms me, even as I doubt that what he’s doing will have much of an effect. I’ve been the pariah before, I know how it works. And a few benign words from on high rarely gets the job done.
Sure enough, once Ethan leaves, most of the room goes back to staring at me. I concentrate on pulling my tablet out of my briefcase and preparing to take notes on whatever shit assignment my tardiness has left me with.
Maryanne makes no move to give me my assignment, though. Instead she dives right back into what they were doing when I got here, which is talking through the main points and areas of interest in each case that is being assigned this week. While different people are in charge of the research and grunt work for different contracts, Chrissy explained to me yesterday that Maryanne likes to go over the main points of all of them with the group so that we all learn the ins and outs of different types of contracts and research. And so we can take over for each other with as little disruption to the actual attorneys as possible if something goes wrong.
It’s actually an extremely valuable learning tool and I’m grateful to be included in the process, even if I don’t know what research I’m going to be working on. By the time the meeting breaks up at ten-fifteen, I have page upon page of notes and a much better idea of some of the main cases deciding intellectual property law in the tech industry today.
The others file out, but I wait behind for my chance to talk to Maryanne. I still don’t have any research assigned to me, but I didn’t want to bring that up during the meeting. I’ve already been the object of enough speculation and interest today to last me for the rest of the summer.
Chrissy hangs at the door for a minute until she snags my attention. Then she mouths for me to come find her when I’m done.
Some of the knots in my stomach slowly untwist themselves. Maybe I’m being too sensitive. Maybe everything will be all right after all.
But then Maryanne finishes the conversation she’s having with Rick, one of the interns who has been here the longest. He doesn’t look happy when he turns away from her, but he keeps a professional demeanor—at least until his back is to Maryanne and his eyes meet mine. Then he glares at me and mouths the word “slut” before walking to the conference room door with a calmness that belies the hatred I saw in his gaze.
So much for everything being all right.
“Thank you for staying behind, Ms. Girard,” Maryanne says as she walks over to me. “I wanted to speak with you about your work for the next few weeks.”
“I’m so sorry I was late.” I know Ethan cleared it, but I feel the need to apologize anyway. “It won’t happen again.”
“Don’t be silly,” she trills. “I understand completely. If Ethan had wanted to ta
lk to me this morning, I probably would have blown off the meeting, too.”
Shit. It’s worse than I thought. Though she’s not admitting to it, my boss is angry. Really angry—hence the passive-aggressive wording of that last statement.
“I fell in the stairwell and hit my hip pretty hard.” I show her the now melted ice pack. “Mr. Frost was courteous enough to help me and ensure I got some ice.”
“So he told me. Are you feeling okay now?”
“Yes. I’m fine.”
“Good, because with the project you’re being assigned, you’ll have a lot of work to do.”
“The project?”
“Yes.” She eyes me coolly. “Whatever you and Ethan spoke about must have impressed him quite a bit. He’s requested that we put you on the research for the Trifecta merger. Have you heard of it?”
I feel my eyes widen and my heart rate increase even as I nod. I don’t know a lot about the Trifecta merger—no one does, as it’s been pretty hush-hush in the business papers—but I know it’s a huge deal. One that stands to make Frost Industries a lot of money, not to mention help them expand into another area of the biotech field.
I tell Maryanne what I’ve read about the merger, which, again, isn’t a lot, but she seems slightly mollified. “I just emailed you what you need to know about the research, along with an outline and timeline that Rick put together on what the lawyers need and when they expect to have it. Please follow the timeline—any deviations will need to be cleared by me.”
“Of course.”
“Do you have any questions?”
I’m sure I do, but until I look at the information she’s sent me, I won’t have a clue what to ask or where to start. So I settle for a simple “Not at this time.”
She must be a mind reader, though—or she understands just how out of my depth I am—because she says, “You will. When you do, start with Rick for answers. If he isn’t helpful, feel free to come to me.”
“I will.”
“Good.” She nods toward the door, her face nowhere near as welcoming as it was when I arrived here yesterday. “I suggest you get started.”
“I will.” Gathering up my tablet and purse, I head for the door as fast as my injured hip will let me.
Right before I get there, Maryanne calls, “And Ms. Girard?”
I turn back to face her. “Yes?”
“This is a big deal. The lawyers you’ll be researching for are extremely demanding. Don’t mess up.”
“I won’t,” I promise her.
She doesn’t say anything, just stares at me until I turn and leave. It’s more than a bit daunting.
As is the fact that I am now one of the key researchers for the Trifecta merger. Though I know the important stuff is done by the lawyers and the engineers and the VPs—not to mention Ethan himself—I’m still pretty sure the task I have in front of me is Herculean, especially for a first-week intern who barely knows which research databases to use.
I should be terrified, and a part of me is, but I’m not going to show it. Not to Maryanne, not to Rick, whose intense reaction in the conference room suddenly makes sense, not to any of the other interns who are staring at me like I’ve turned rabid—or traitor. I can do this. I have to do this. Because as I walk into the small area of cubbies assigned to the interns, I realize just how much things have changed in the course of one morning. Not only because of my new assignment but because yesterday Maryanne—like everyone else—addressed me as Chloe. Today I’m suddenly Ms. Girard.
With Jose it was a sign of politeness, of deference. Something tells me that with my new boss, it’s the exact opposite.
Chapter Five
I can’t do this. I just can’t. I’m in the women’s bathroom on the second floor of Building Three and I’m using every ounce of willpower I have to not cry. It’s stupid, I know. After all, I’ve been through much worse than this before. I’ve had people say nastier things to me, do nastier things to me.
But that was a long time ago, when I was expecting it. Hardened to it. Here, in this job that I was so excited about, at this place where I so desperately wanted to work and learn and contribute, it’s a million times worse than it ever was when I was younger.
To say the day has not gone well would be an understatement. Rick is a total asshole, a sanctimonious bully of the worst kind. He’s been the ringleader of the crusade against me—big surprise—and he’s done everything he can to make my day as miserable as possible. It all started when he stopped by my desk to “talk” about the Trifecta merger and “accidentally” spilled his hot coffee all over me. Since then, he’s bumped into me three different times, the last of which sent me slamming into a wall, injured hip first. I barely kept the tears out of my eyes then, but painful or not, I’ll be damned if I give that bastard the satisfaction of knowing he’s rattled me.
Of course, he is very much king of the intern castle, the one who sets the tone for the whole group and the one whose behavior they take their cues from, since he’s been here longest. Which means I’ve spent the day dodging everything from passive-aggressive comments to out-and-out confrontations. One of the women, I think her name is Beth, actually stuck her foot out and tripped me. Of course, she played it just the way Rick did, like it was all an accident and I was the clumsy one, but I’m not overly clumsy and I know her foot hadn’t been in my path until she very deliberately stuck it there.
I almost came out swinging from that one—I’ve learned that being passive is the worst thing I can do in situations like this—but when I looked up and found Chrissy laughing at me along with the rest of them, my mind went blank. No sarcastic comeback, no witty joke at my tormentors’ expense. All I could do was pick up the binder I’d dropped and all the papers that had scattered in the fall and go back to my desk.
Which is where I was, putting the papers back into some semblance of order, when Rick sidled up like the snake he is. This time instead of messing with me physically, he made some comment about me and my wide-open legs, and all I could think about was plowing my fist into his face. Or my knee into his dick.
But that isn’t done—at least not in an office building where all seven of my co-workers would swear that I’m the one at fault. That I started the fight.
So I walked it off instead, and here I am now, cowering in the bathroom, impotent tears burning in my eyes. But I won’t let them fall. Not now, not ever again. Besides, it’s not that I can’t take their insults and their bullshit; I can. But I want to fight back—I need to fight back. After I escaped my parents and that school, not to mention the untenable situation with Brandon, I swore to myself that I would never be a victim again. That I would fight my own battles and to hell with what the rest of the world said.
It’s worked during the three years I’ve spent at UCSD so far, but to be honest, I haven’t exactly had a lot of opposition. Nothing like what I went through before. And nothing like what I’m experiencing today.
So why didn’t I fight back? Why didn’t I tell Rick exactly what I would do to his balls if he insinuated one more time that I slept my way to the spot he’s spent two years working toward? Why didn’t I tell that bitch off for tripping me? Why didn’t I do anything?
Because this isn’t a schoolyard. This is a workplace and I can’t exactly plow my fist into someone’s face and call it self-defense. Especially if I’m the one striking first.
Bending over the sink, I splash some cold water on my too-red cheeks. Let it cool the red down, and cool my humiliation right along with it. Because while I’m angry and annoyed and, yes, even hurt by how quickly and easily my fellow interns turned on me, it’s not really them I’m angry at. After all, they’re just acting like the hyenas they are, circling and waiting to pounce until my strength gives out.
No, I’m angry at Ethan for putting me in this position. For sending me that stupidly inappropriate blender. For following me into the stairwell and making me freak out. For insisting I put ice on my damn hip. And for handing me this plum ass
ignment that’s really more of a nightmare, for no other reason than because he wants to take me out.
And to be honest, that’s the real reason I haven’t fought back today. That’s the real reason I’ve taken all the abuse they can heap on me. Because while I am definitely not sleeping my way to a better position—the thought has never crossed my mind to do so—Rick and the others aren’t wrong when they imply that I only got to do the Trifecta merger research because Ethan likes me. Because he wants me.
I have no problem fighting back against bullies, but I do have problems telling them they’re full of shit when they aren’t. Rick has every right to be upset at being pulled off the project for someone with one day’s worth of experience—we’re all fighting for the best projects to pad our résumés and the best chance to show off our stuff so that we can actually get a job here at Frost Industries or somewhere like it.
Frustrated, annoyed, and more hurt than I want to admit, even to myself, I turn the tap off. Dry my face. Then run the towel under my eyes to catch the remnants of mascara that pooled there when I washed my face. Which obviously wasn’t such a great idea now that I think about it. I learned to use makeup as a shield years ago, to hide my emotions as surely as my bruises. Standing here without it now, I feel vulnerable. Defenseless.
It’s a feeling I like even less than being bullied.
I reach into my purse, pull out the pot of rose-tinted lip balm that I go through like water. I switched purses for my new job yesterday and in my urgency to get out the door and be on time, I forgot to drop in my usual makeup kit. I’d meant to add it last night, but then the great strawberry debacle had distracted me. And when I left the house this morning I was too exhausted to remember my own name let alone anything else.