by Piper Malone
The instant I step into the kitchen, Nick is gripping the front of my shirt, yanking me to my toes. His face is hard, predatory, nostrils flared as he glares at me. “I’ll get it done,” he says through gritted teeth.
He releases me with enough force to make me lose my balance and emphasize his displeasure with my demands. I try to rub the tension out of my neck and search for the words that will calm the beast brewing in him. I know what it’s like to be ignored by the girl you’re interested in, but I don’t know how to talk to Nick about his feelings. He’s never alluded to actually having any emotion outside of pissed or disinterested. I’m going in blind.
“Okay, I’m sorry,” I offer. “That was over the line.” He moves around the kitchen as if I wasn’t there, finding a bottle of water and slugging it down before crushing the empty vessel in his hand. “Can I help with anything?”
“Nope,” he snorts, eyes trained on the floor.
I love when Nick is chatty. He’s such a treat sometimes. Maybe taking a different track would ease his tension. Beer clearly didn’t work, so how about babes? “Have you seen Chloe lately? Maybe you should spend some time with her.”
He glares at me with hooded eyes, his body freezing in place but his muscles appear to bulge with intensity. Nick inhales and turns his back again. Deafening silence fills the room. This is bullshit.
Since gentle suggestions are never going to work, it’s time to be blunt. Whatever the consequence, I’d rather him rage than stand in silence. “Dude, I have no clue what’s going on but have you thought about spending some time with one of the other subs? Maybe blow off a little steam to clear your head?”
Even with his back to me, Nick’s steely voice clear. “Did you blow off steam with anyone else when Kat was playing her games?”
“First of all, she wasn’t playing games.” He’s trying to bait me, which I get. It’s easier to fight than admit that you feel like shit. “Secondly, I topped multiple subs in that time. I never slept with them but that was my choice.”
“This is my choice,” he says with grizzly determination.
“Your choice is to be a miserable monk?”
He turns on his heel but stays in his corner of the room. It’s a safe enough distance that I could get a good head start if he charged. Besides, it feels good to unload a little. “How long are you going to wait, Nick? No one knows when she’s coming back.”
Nick prowls along the length of the room toward the cases of soda that should have been stocked days ago. “This is your last chance, Blake.” His warning is cold, ominous.
We’ve fought before. If he won’t fuck, maybe punching someone will help pull him out of the pit. I’ll try anything at this point, even if it means enduring an ass kicking from Nick. “Are you just going to walk around with blue balls forever, man?”
As soon as the words are out, a can of soda whizzes past my ear, cracking against the concrete wall behind me. A second can hits me in the gut like a cannonball. My stomach pitches from the force, threatening to expel my breakfast. The third can smashes against the wall only inches from my head.
“What the fuck, man!” I choke, my abdomen seizing in pain.
From his same position in the kitchen, Nick gently tosses up and catches a fourth can. He never moved, never advanced, just grabbed the ammunition and fired. His expression is predatory, tense and vicious.
“I have to complete the inventory,” he states with a tight edge.
I shake my head and exit the kitchen hoping that he doesn’t decide to tenderize my kidney with the beverage in his hand.
Nick is never someone who wears his pain openly, but the truth is clear. Skyler’s absence has wounded him so deeply I’m worried he might bleed out.
Chapter 14
Kat
“Hey baby, let me know when you’re ready for lunch.”
My stomach churns. The lava of my foul mood boils under the surface of my skin. My jagged emotions stab the last ounces of professionalism I have. I’m not in the mood for Greg to hit on me. I have to see my family this weekend.
I should have stayed in bed.
“Greg,” I try to sound neutral, professional, but the sharp tone of my voice snaps him to attention, “tell me why you think it’s appropriate to hit on women in this office?”
My eyes narrow, zeroing in on my prey, waiting for the opportunity to pounce. It’s a look that makes most people scamper away, but Greg is apparently an idiot.
Greg shoves his hands in his pockets, squaring his shoulders and standing a little taller as he strolls into my office. “I think of our time together as an opportunity to get to know each other a little better.”
“We don’t need to get to know each other, Greg. Our relationship is time-limited.” I feel my frustration growing, heat burning my cheeks. “And, not that it’s any of your business, I’m dating a man who would kick your ass all over downtown Boston.”
“See, that’s the problem, Kat.” He steps closer, laying his palms flat on my desk and leaning toward me. “I’d kick ass on every continent. You need a man like me. Forget about him for a half hour and I’ll show you how a woman should be treated.”
Did Greg just bitch-slap Blake? Yes, this is precisely the fight I wanted to have today.
I stand up, my heels giving a slight height advantage, and level the best glare I can muster. Based on his expression, I think my eyes might be glowing red. “Greg, get out of my office. I’m working. If you ever disturb my work, disrespect my significant other, or try to hit on me again, I’ll have Human Resources up your backside in an instant. You might be the shit at your frat house, but you’re in the big leagues now. Do not, for an instant, think that you have anything of value to offer any of the women working in this office.” I wanted to scare him, not insult him. From his downturned expression, he got the message. Greg’s gaze falls to the carpet, his puffed chest deflated. I thought I was a force in control, but then I slipped over the line. Fuck. I’m not fit to be around humans today.
“Yes, Miss Boytsov,” he mutters, before turning tail and walking out of my office.
Once he’s out of sight, the wrecking ball of destruction hits. Why are you such a bitch? Why can’t you take a compliment? That’s all he was doing, it was awful, but that’s what he was doing. I’ve tested limits to get what I want. Sometimes it works. Sometimes it backfires. I cannot crush a young man when he’s just starting out.
I need to fix this.
“Greg!” I yell at his hunched, retreating figure. He turns cautiously, glancing at me before he stops. “Can you come here for a minute?” He hesitates. I’m sure he’s debating if he really wants to walk into another verbal crotch kick. “Just for a minute, I promise.” I try to sound light, but it’s tough when you are filled with lead.
His short trip back to my office seemed like an eternity, but when he finally crosses the door, the apologies start oozing out. “Miss Boytsov, I had no idea you were in a relationship. Please don’t call HR. I need to have a good job when I graduate.”
He stops when I gesture to the two leather chairs in front of my desk. He wilts a little more before flopping in the seat like a teenager. Which, he might still be.
“Greg, how old are you?”
“Twenty-two,” he mumbles.
“Why are you here?”
“You mean in your office?” He straightens a little, confused by the brain-buster I leveled. “You asked me to come back?”
Oh dear God… “No, why did you choose this agency for your internship?”
“Because it’s the best in Boston and I couldn’t afford to move far away from town.”
I’ve watched him over the past weeks. Greg is smart, very skilled, creative, and dynamic. So why does he put on the douchey laser light show?
“Tell me what you want.” He has to have goals, right?
He leans against the curved back of the chair and scrubs his face with his hands. “I need to get a job that pays. It would be nice not to work two jobs and inte
rn and squeeze in classes.”
“Why are you working two jobs? You should be focused on school.”
“I like to help my dad with the bills.” Greg’s vague statement reveals much more than he intends. It’s obvious he’s working to help make ends meet.
Holy fuck I need a cigarette.
Part of me wants to go out to lunch with him just to help him feel better, but I can’t fix his crappy situation. I can do my best to keep the royal bitch side of me at bay. “Do you have family and friends that can help you out?”
“Yeah, it’s under control, but it’s stressful. I just wanted to have a little fun and forget about all the crap.”
“And you thought lunch with me would do that?”
“Sort of, it would be nice to walk into a place with a woman like you next to me.” He glances at me, uncertainty washing over his face. A second later, he shrugs his shoulders, shoving away the worry. “I’d be king for a night with you on my arm.”
Truthfully, his intentions are sweet, but the presentation is all wrong.
“Women are not baubles for men to showcase, Greg. I’m not saying you can’t approach women for dinner, but you need to respect the answer they give you.”
“I just wanted some time that didn’t involve talking about work or my Dad grumbling about pain or with my face in a book.” He rolls his head back, fingers gripping his hair. When he pulls his hands free, a disgusted scoff pushes out, his fingers sticky with gel or pomade or whatever the hell is slicking his hair back.
“Here.” I reach across the desk and grab him a tissue. He wipes his hands and pulls at the tie that looks a little too tight. “Greg, are you comfortable in that suit?”
“Hell no,” he chuffs. “I thought in the interview we were told business casual, and then I show up and two of the other interns are dressed to the nines. I hate having to remember where to hang my jacket so it doesn’t wrinkle. I feel claustrophobic in this thing.”
“You should try wearing Spanx,” I volley, my heart softening a little to him. He’s trying. He’s awkward. Greg is not a smooth guy, but he’s very young.
“Listen, I’m flattered you thought an evening with me would help you step away from all the garbage, but we can’t go out on a date. Plus, and I’ll be brutally honest here, the Greg that is talking to me right now is much more likeable than the guy who leaned on my desk a little while ago.”
“I thought women liked guys in control who were a little jerky?”
“No, women don’t like jerks.” I pause, reflecting on what I know about the female gender. “Well, that’s not true, some women love jerks. However, that’s not you. Do you want to know why you struck out so severely with me?” His head bobs, eyes wide and pleading for the answer. “You weren’t genuine.”
“The genuine me hates this suit. I have an entire closet of dress shirts that have the insignia of different comic book heroes on the chest where a ridiculous alligator should be.” His eyes light up, the joy of talking about what he loves igniting his excitement. “It’s so fun to wear something that shows your geek side without being so overt that someone calls you out for being a dork.”
I cross my legs and silently agree with Greg when I feel the moorings of my garter brush against my thighs. When I realized the power of wearing sexy lingerie, I never looked back. Under my dress pants and cashmere blouse is a fierce combination of black lace and canary silk. I call it my beehive collection because this set creates quite a buzz.
“So why don’t you wear your shirts? This isn’t Wall Street and you need to be comfortable.”
Greg rolls his eyes, a look of irritation painting his face. “The one day I wore the shirt that had the Dr. Who Tardis on it, Serena got one look at it and told me that if I wanted to make anything of myself, I needed to grow up.” Greg presses the heels of his hands to his eyes, a labored huff pushing from his chest. “I’ve been growing up since I was sixteen years old. I can’t afford to let something as insignificant as personal preference hold me back from achieving a goal.”
That skank bitch.
“I need you to hear me on this: Do not listen to Serena. Ever! If she talks to you like that again, I need you to tell me immediately. Since you are working with me, you need to lose these suits and wear your button downs. That crap you have in your hair needs to go. Do not compare yourself to other interns. They have their own path. Your talent will make you stand out. Make sure you are comfortable enough to be able to show your best work. You need to be you, Greg. No one is going to love the veneer because that’s not real. It will fade and you will run the risk of someone loving the veneer and not you.”
The silence is a little overwhelming. I can’t believe the things that have poured from my mouth. I sound like Reagan. I think she gave me this same speech not so long ago…
“Okay,” Greg says, “I’ll try.”
“And,” because the devil in me needs to play, “I think you should spend some time with Ruby on the Lindberg project. They are wonderful clients who have provided great insights to many of the people they have worked with, including me. Plus, I saw a Catwoman insignia on Ruby’s keychain when we were in the elevator.”
“Oh.” His eyes dart back and forth, either cataloging what shirt would get the most attention or trying to figure out what to do next.
“Spend some time with her. Be you. Ask her out for whatever her favorite drink is.” He offers a nod, bolstered by the pep talk.
“Miss Boytsov, I’m truly sorry for what I said earlier—”
I hold up my hand, partially because I’ve had too much huggie-lovie shit for one day. “It’s forgotten about. Now, I need you to get out of my office because the stench of your adolescent male body spray is going to kill my orchids.” I pop an eyebrow to accentuate the point. “Lose that crap too.”
Greg snorts a small laugh before turning his soft chocolate-brown eyes toward me. “You sound like my mom.”
“Well, then you should listen to all the good things she has to say.”
The instant the words are out, the skin around his eyes tightens, his lips press together.
Oh shit! I feel the blood drain from my face.
“Don’t look like that,” he says with more kindness than I would have suspected. “It’s okay. She died three years ago. We knew and had time to say good-bye.”
Why can’t I ever say the right thing? I should know better than to assume everyone has a picture-perfect life.
“I’m sorry for your loss, Greg.” He seems like such a good kid. He deserves to have his parents watch him succeed.
He nods and scoots out of the chair and heads for the hallway. I’m behind my desk when he turns to face me.
“Thank you, Miss Boytsov.” Greg turns a tentative gaze down the hall before leaning back in the doorway a little. “I appreciate your support.”
The deep breath is not one of irritation or anger. It’s focused, calm, and dutiful. I do my best to restrain my heart-wrenching smile. Our paths haven’t been the same, but I get where he’s coming from.
“You’re welcome.” The words catch a little, making me grab my empty coffee cup hoping for a single drop to wash the emotion back into the pit of my stomach. Clearing my throat, I shove the blubbering mess quivering below the surface far enough away to sound normal. “Make sure I know how things are going with Ruby. And talk to HR about a possible job here after graduation. If they know you are interested now, they might be able to make a smooth transition for you in May.” He nods, on his way to the intern cube when the words rush forward. “Greg?” He stops, his adorable face trained on me. “You can call me Kat.”
Greg gives me a brilliant smile before walking out of my office. Thank goodness he left when he did. The tightness in my throat makes it hard to breath, the world looking watery through my eyes. I wouldn’t have been able to hide it if Greg was still here.
I flop in my chair and kick off my heels, swallowing down the emotion and feeling way too exhausted for only having a single conver
sation. Where did all that come from? He compared me to his mom? No one has ever said that to me. I have no mom-relatable skills. I can’t cook. I hate to clean. What else do moms do?
The list I come up with sparse and shallow at best. I’m missing so much, but being a mom might be manageable. I’m sure they have a webinar I can take if I needed to. I can practice on Reagan’s kid. Yes! Like the free one-week pass at the gym. If I hate it, I don’t ever have to go back.
Like Blake would let that happen.
I could swear that it wasn’t my voice singing the statement in my head. I need to focus on figuring out my pitch, setting up the house of my dreams, and then worrying about with whom to share my womb.
I push off the ridiculous thoughts, and, for the umpteenth time, I shake my empty coffee cup and finally give in. It’s time for a coffee run, again.
I grab my phone and send a quick text to Blake, inspired to try new things and explore all the dimensions of who I am.
*
“Doll?” Blake’s eyes are glued to the kitchen counter, hands shoved in the pockets of his jeans. “You want to tell me what this is?”
I don’t know if I should laugh or cry. “It’s, um,” I reach for the paper I printed off from my computer a few hours ago, “mushroom, wild rice and pork chop bake.”
Silence. Blake’s mouth screws up, then falls open, and tightens again, before a low rumble comes from his chest. “Um,” his hand grips the back of his neck, “did you carve these pork chops out of concrete?”
“Blake!” I yell, smacking at his arm. He fends me off with one hand while the other grabs a serving spoon to whack the petrified pork. The sound of stainless steel hitting stone echoes off the walls. It’s hilarious and embarrassing. “Okay.” I try to grab the spoon, his excitement over my inept domestic skills making me feel like an idiot. “I tried,” I offer, tossing a towel at him. “You’re welcome.”