Due South (The Compass series Book 5)

by Tamsen Parker

  “I’m going to order Chinese. Want anything?”

  He takes the menu on offer and flips through it before requesting the vegetable delight and the crispy orange beef, and thanks me before turning back to his work. It’s not as if we have a ton of time to waste, but I’d hoped for more interaction. It’d be nice to talk to Evans in addition to having sex with him, but maybe that’s too relationship-y. That would practically be a date, so yeah, shouldn’t go there.

  Forty-five minutes later, I’m buzzing Evans because the food is here. I’d walk down to his office to let him know, but I might eat my own arm if I have to wait even two minutes longer than I have to. He comes into the kitchen while I’m unpacking the plastic and paper containers, stretching his arms and his neck, and I notice he’s taken off his tie and unbuttoned his shirt. I wish he’d roll up his sleeves, but that’s not exactly a request I can make.

  We silently unpack our food and serve ourselves, the memory of us going at it on the floor in here making the back of my neck and my cheeks hot. I’m planning on eating a silent dinner at my desk, maybe taking a break to catch up on some celeb gossip, when Evans clears his throat.

  “Would you…like to eat together?”

  Oh. A rush of pleasure spreads tingles from my chest through to my fingertips. He wants to spend time with me, even when we’re not having sex. It might be I’m the only human contact he’s had lately, and the outlook’s not much better, but I let myself believe this is about me. That if things were different, maybe he’d like to have dinner with me anyway. But I cover my silly hope, because that’s all it is.

  “Sure. The company would be nice.”

  Evans looks worn out, and the idea of us hovering over a shared desk is depressing, so I hold up a finger. He doesn’t question me, but takes up my plate and follows me out of the kitchen.

  I grab the blanket off the back of India’s couch and spread it out on her floor. She’s got these big windows, and while the sun set some time ago, it’s a nicer view than the cube farm that surrounds me or the blank walls of Evans’s office. Maybe once Leo leaves, Evans will get his office. After India’s, it’s the nicest and it has its own bathroom. It should probably be his now if we’re going by how much someone contributes, but Leo’s been here forever and I suppose he’s earned a cushy office for his last few years before he retires. And Evans is nice enough not to complain.

  Evans smiles at my makeshift picnic, and once I’ve lowered myself to the floor, he hands me my plate and then settles himself, leaning up against India’s couch. We both dig into our food and groan with delight. Dragon Palace is good, but probably not deserving of that kind of noise. No, that kind of noise should be reserved for only one thing.

  Evans must be thinking the same thing, because when our eyes meet, his cheeks bloom red and mine feel as though they do the same. At least we share the same fair skin. Turning beet red with embarrassment is a trait most redheads can commiserate about.

  After a few more bites, we come up for air, and Evans is looking at me. Do I have something on my face? Did I spill on myself? But, no, he shakes his head. “Are you really disappointed to be missing the holidays with your family? I know you usually go home to Iowa.”

  It’s silly, but I’m flattered he remembered. Also guilty because I don’t remember where Evans is from. Has he ever even said? He doesn’t talk about family ever. Or friends.

  I shrug in partial answer to his question. “I’m sad to be missing some things. Not so much others. What about you?”

  “My family lives nearby—small town outside the city—so I see them a lot.” The corners of his mouth turn down. Does he not get along with his family? It’s hard for me to imagine Evans not getting along with anyone. Not that he’s friends with everyone here or close with anyone, but I get the feeling the people who don’t like him here don’t like him for precisely the same reasons I do. Mostly it’s the young, aggressive dudebros, the ones who stare at my chest in unsubtle ways until India threatens to fire them for sexual harassment if they keep it up. “And we’re Jewish, so we don’t celebrate Christmas.”

  This is not entirely a surprise. I’d wondered if he might be when I saw that his name was Hebrew, but a lot of Biblical names are, and it doesn’t necessarily tell you anything. Now that I have confirmation, the many times I’ve wished him a Merry Christmas or Happy Easter over the past six years flood back to me. In all that time, never did he correct me. I smack him gently on the shoulder, and he looks surprised.

  “Why didn’t you tell me? I’ve been wishing you the wrong holidays for years.” My mother’s one of those people who decks out her house with seasonal and holiday knickknacks every chance she gets. Valentine’s Day, St. Patrick’s Day, Fourth of July—anything you can think of and our house is dripping in banners and those window stickies, not to mention the bears whose outfits she changes on a regular basis. Holidays are a big deal.

  He lifts one shoulder before taking another bite of his vegetables. “Why would I? You meant it kindly, and when I said it back, I meant it too. You were trying to be nice, Luce. And you were. Besides, we’re not much for holidays in my family. And definitely not the religious ones.”

  “But—” I clamp my mouth shut before I can finish the sentence. But your name is Hebrew. Why would your parents name you something like that if they weren’t religious?

  He laughs, a short, not actually amused sound. “You’d think a Jewish family who named their kid Chanoch instead of Joel or Samuel would be more religious, right?”

  I screw up my face, because honestly, what do I know about Judaism? Not much, besides that Challah French toast is amazing, and I like latkes.

  “My mother’s never been very religious, but her first husband was. I’m named after his father who passed away right before my mom found out she was pregnant. It’s pretty traditional in Jewish families to name babies after recently deceased relatives. Anyway, my biological father died before I was born and my mom got married again while I was still a baby. So that’s who I think of as my dad. And he’s…let’s just say even he probably doesn’t remember the last time he went to synagogue.”

  “Oh. I’m sorry about your…”

  “Yeah, thanks.”

  Evans shovels another chopstick load of peapods into his mouth and chews, looking out the window. He doesn’t like talking about his family, but I can’t help but ask more.

  “So are you an only child?”

  He swallows and still doesn’t meet my gaze. “No, I have a younger brother.”

  “Does he have a first name or does he go by Evans like you?” Which would be super confusing, but who knows?

  That earns me a snort. “No. His name’s Darren. No one messes that up on the playground. What about you? I bet you have half a dozen older brothers and they’re each the size of a barn.”

  “I do not!” I sniff and put my nose in the air. “There are only four of them.”

  That makes Evans half-laugh, half-choke. “And no sisters?”

  “Not a one. Not for lack of my trying to get my parents to give me one, either. But they were done with five, and now I can’t blame them. Honestly, I don’t know why they didn’t stop after Josh. He was a handful. Matt, Jason, and Ryan weren’t any better.”

  They were all so rowdy and did the stupid stuff all small-town farm boys did. And yet I was the one who got treated like the troublemaker, merely because I’d been born a girl, and god forbid, had breasts, and boys and men liked to look at me. As if that was my fault. As if there was more I should’ve been doing about it.

  “I’m sure they were glad they kept trying after they got you.”

  It’s an odd compliment, but it makes me happy anyway and I have to do my best not to shrug. I’m honestly not so sure, but as Evans said before, I know he means it kindly so I won’t correct him. We’re fucking for a few days while we get this bond project wrapped up. No need to try to explain.

  I cover my lack of answer with another bite of my mushrooms and then steer t
he conversation back to someplace safe.

  “Have you finished the section on issuer default?”

  He glances at me and looks as though he wants to go back to more personal topics, but it’s time to go back to work. I give him what I hope is a pointed look and he accepts my mute ruling. “Not quite yet. I have to rework a few paragraphs, but then it should be good to go. Would you mind double-checking it before I have to send it to India?”

  “Of course.”

  *

  Evans

  After my dinner with Lucy, I go back to my office and finish up the paragraphs I promised to. This part of the report isn’t even demanding, but those slackers managed to mess it up too. I don’t like this section and not because it’s boring. It’s not. It’s because it makes me queasy—the idea of defaulting on obligations, financial or otherwise, makes my stomach churn.

  Even with the money I send to my family, I could probably afford a nicer apartment, a better car. Heck, I did go shopping for some better clothes after I realized how shabby I must look next to India when we go on site visits together. It occurred to me that it might reflect poorly on the company and I won’t have anyone thinking she’s not the best of the best because her associate dresses as if he walked out of a discount catalogue. I’m still nowhere near the guys in my office who frequent bars after work and actually seem to know something about clothing labels, but I’ll do.

  But the thing is, it makes me nervous to have nice things. Even though I’ve been working at JVA and now BCG for six years, I still wake up wondering if today is going to be the day when I put my foot in it, when I screw something up irreparably. India doesn’t have quite as much of a hair trigger when it comes to firing people as Jack did, but she expects my best work every day. Not that she singles me out—she has the same sky-high expectations for everyone who works for her—but the closer you get to the top, the harsher of a mistress she is.

  Knowing what I know now—that she’s stressing about the future of the company and feels the weight of the whole company on her shoulders—I don’t blame her for demanding perfection. She probably saves the most nitpicking for her own work. It also makes me more sympathetic because I know what that weight feels like. It’s a burden.

  I look over the section one more time, and though I could dash off a quick email to Lucy and have done with it, the truth is I’d like to see her and it would do me good to stretch my legs. Maybe get me a couple more hours so I can dive into the section on outstanding debt.

  I send the document to the printer and grab it on my way down the hall. When I get near Lucy’s desk, I hear her voice. I didn’t hear anyone come in, so she must be on the phone.

  “Yes, Mama, I’m still at work. No, India’s not here. I’m sure she’s—”

  A few steps closer, and I can hear the squawking coming out of Lucy’s phone. She’s holding it away from her ear while her forehead’s firmly planted in her other palm. Bent elbow supported by the desk, she looks so pathetic I’d laugh if I didn’t feel so bad for her. When the loud protest has ebbed, Lucy puts the phone back to her ear. “Mama, India works from home a lot. Did you hear that bing? It’s because she sent me an email. It’s just, her husband, he—”

  Again with the holding the phone at arm’s length, and now that I’m only a step away, I can hear the words.

  “And how are you supposed to find a husband when you’re at work all hours? Don’t you want to get married and have babies? I don’t even remember the last time you had a boyfriend.”

  Lucy bangs her head into her palm a few times. At least it’s not the desk? These must be the things she won’t miss about going home.

  “I go out on dates,” she snaps, her eyes flying open at the same time, and her cheeks color when she realizes I’m standing right here. She shouldn’t be embarrassed. As far as I can tell, this is what families do: tell you all the ways you’re disappointing them. “Besides, my job is demanding and it’s important to me.”

  “For God’s sake, Lucy, you’re just a secretary.”

  Until now, she’s kept a brave face on, but at that, her eyes start to water and her round chin quivers. My heart breaks for her because, yeah, she gets India’s coffee and runs off copies and manages her schedule, but she also does some pretty sophisticated stuff. Things even some people with masters’ degrees can’t handle, as evidenced by our current project. I want to reach through the phone and…I don’t know. I can’t punch Lucy’s mom, even if she’s being horrible, but I’d like to wag my finger at her. Sternly. And maybe raise my voice.

  While I can’t do that, what I can do is get Lucy off this call. And maybe make her mom see how valuable she is.

  “Hey, Lucy. I finished the issuer default section. Would you mind taking a look at it before I send it to the boss lady? You’ve got eagle eyes and you know this stuff backward and forward. I’d feel more confident about handing it over to India if you’ve given it the once-over.”

  That might be a bit of an exaggeration because neither of us are experts on this bond stuff, but Lucy does have a knack for catching typos and inconsistencies and I really would feel better about having another person look at this before I subject it to India’s scrutiny.

  She turns her face up to mine, her expression of sadness now tinged with gratitude because she understands what I’m trying to do and she appreciates it.

  “Of course, Mr. Evans, I’d be happy to. I’m finishing up this call, but I’ll be right with you.”

  Her calling me Mr. Evans almost makes me bust out laughing, but I manage to keep it inside. “Thanks, you’re a lifesaver.”

  I wink at her—or try to, because winking’s never been my thing—but I like feeling as though Lucy and I are co-conspirators, and it earns me a watery smile. Better than no smile at all.

  It takes a couple of minutes to wind up her call. I could leave, scrounge something in the kitchen while I wait for her to be done, but if her mom starts being crappy again, I want to be there. Maybe head it off at the pass before she makes Lucy upset again. It’s not often I feel protective of anyone. Most people I know don’t need my protection—they’re badass whereas I’m me. I’ve never been in a position to offer anyone much of anything, and while I can’t offer Lucy much, I can give her this.

  Luckily, it doesn’t come to that, and Lucy’s hanging up, dropping her cell on the desk before putting her face in her hands. There’s a single sniff, and then she seems to remember I’m there, whipping her head up and swiping at her eyes.

  “Do you have that report?”

  Okay, so we’re not going to talk about it. Which is probably for the best.

  “Yeah, sure.” I hand over the pages, and she takes up a purple pen from her desk and starts to read, circling something almost immediately.

  “Two periods,” she says almost apologetically.

  I wait until she’s done, watching her pretty eyes skim the pages and how she chews on the end of her pen while she concentrates. There aren’t too many marks when she’s done, but there are a few and I’m glad I thought to give it to her. She’s good at this stuff.

  She hands it back with a smile, less shaky than the last one. “Nice job. It’s pretty good. I’m not India, mind you, but I think she’ll be happy.”

  “Thanks, Lucy. And…” If she doesn’t want to talk about it, I don’t want to force her, especially since I can’t be here to pick up any shards I might knock off, but she needs to know. “Your mom is wrong. You’re not just a secretary. This place would cease to function without you. And you make every day better by being here.”

  Her eyes have gone big and round, her mouth open slightly. I didn’t mean to upset her, but when she squares her shoulders and settles her hips back in her seat, neatening a stack of papers in front of her, I think that’s what I’ve done. Except then she looks up at me with her lips pinched between her teeth.

  “Thank you.” Her throat works as she swallows. Holding back happy, grateful tears? A man can dream. “She’s not always like that and
I know it’s because she misses me, but…”

  “But it still hurts and she shouldn’t say things like that to you. You’re great, Luce. But can I ask you for one thing?”

  “Yeah, of course.”

  “Don’t call me Mr. Evans again? That was, like, super weird.”

  If Lucy weren’t so feminine, I might say she barks a laugh, but she is, so I won’t even think that because she’d be mortified. “No problem. Want some coffee?”

  Chapter Nine

  ‡

  December 21st

  Evans

  Today’s the office holiday party. I usually try to find some excuse not to go because I see enough of these people every day, never mind spending off hours with them. It doesn’t help that the one time I did go, it was awkward. People talk to me at work, ask me questions, make pleasant workaday chatter. But when it comes down to it, we’re not exactly friends. And one can only drink a glass of champagne so slowly.

  This year, though, India made it clear my presence is expected.

  “Evans. You need a break. If you look at that report any longer, your brain is going to stop working altogether, and then where will I be?”

  Up a creek without a paddle is where she’d be, so here I am, wearing a fresh shirt and a different tie, standing in a swanky hotel restaurant, wondering what the hell I’m supposed to do now. And possibly staring at the door, hoping Lucy will get here soon. She’ll talk to me. Won’t she? If for no other reason than she’ll feel bad no one else is.

  I would’ve offered her a ride, but she went home to get ready for this—didn’t just take a quick shower at the office, which is what I’d done. Even India had gone home to get ready, and it shows. The white and silver cocktail dress she’s wearing isn’t something I’d ever guess she’d wear, but it looks nice on her. She’s chatting with Leo and Singh, gesturing with her hands, and she’s practically back-to-back with Cris, who’s listening intently to something Mi Young is explaining. Possibly her project with Oregon’s Department of Land Conservation and Development.