Melt for You (Slow Burn Book 2)

by J. T. Geissinger

  The cubicle field is exactly the same yet looks completely different. How did I sit at that desk for ten years of my life? How did I look at those fuzzy gray walls? How did I waste so much time pedaling as fast as I could on a bike that didn’t have wheels?

  I head to the boardroom straight off the bat because there’s no sense in delaying the inevitable. When I push open the heavy oak door, I’m surprised to find the room full of people.

  Everyone stops what they’re doing and turns to look at me.

  Ruth from HR is here, of course. So is Portia, looking unfairly pretty in a kelly-green dress. Witches shouldn’t have such a lovely glow. Also in attendance are Michael’s father, the COO, a few other board members I recognize, and a few guys with thick glasses and faces like slabs of meat who look suspiciously like attorneys.

  “Joellen.” Portia steps forward and gestures toward the chair nearest me. “Thank you for coming. Please, have a seat.”

  This is when I start to get nervous. All these eyeballs, everyone so serious . . . am I about to be accused of a crime?

  I don’t sit so much as collapse into the chair. Then I wait.

  It’s Ruth who speaks first. “These gentlemen are the firm’s attorneys.”

  I assumed I’d be scared to hear it confirmed, but instead I’m filled with a sudden, blistering fury, so hot I’m momentarily struck dumb. Then I find my tongue and let them have it.

  “So it’s going to be strong-arm tactics and intimidation right off the bat, huh? Nobody even wants to hear my side of the story? Nobody’s interested in what really happened—you’re just going to pin this all on me and throw me out like garbage after ten years of dedicated service?” My voice rises as my anger picks up steam. “After I’ve busted my ass and played by the rules and given you everything I’ve got, I’m the one getting punished?”

  I stand abruptly, knocking the chair back, my cheeks blazing. Around the board table, people begin to look alarmed.

  But I don’t care. Today is the worst day of my life. Cam is gone, and I do not feel like being messed with.

  “I’ve missed one day of work in the past decade. One! And that was only because I had to get some of my lady parts chopped up and taken out, which isn’t a walk in the park, I’ll have you know! I cramped like a mofo and bled out clots the size of important organs for three weeks after that, sitting right out there in that chair!”

  One of the attorneys turns faintly green, and the other coughs into his hand.

  Ruth says gently, “Joellen.”

  “No, I’m not finished! I never did anything with Michael except be dazzled by all his sparkly bullshit”—I make frantic, sarcastic jazz hands in the air—“gobble up all his phony-baloney lines, and share a few stupid phone conversations that lasted all of about five minutes! I never even kissed him! In spite of what you think you saw, Portia”—I swing around and glare at her, causing her to lift her perfectly sculpted brows—“I was trying to fight him off at the holiday party!”

  I huff out a breath, flustered and sweaty, taking no small satisfaction in all the looks of horror I’m getting. That’s right, assholes. I am woman, hear me roar!

  “We know,” says Ruth.

  I blink at her, convinced I’m hearing her wrong. In the following silence, you could hear a pin drop. “Uh . . . what?”

  “I was in one of the stalls in the ladies’ room that night, Joellen. I heard everything.”

  For some reason, the room is rising. Then I realize, no, that’s not the room rising, that’s me sinking back into the chair because my legs are no longer interested in the work of holding my gobsmacked self up.

  Portia takes charge. “We had an emergency board meeting after Ruth disclosed what she overheard in the restroom that evening, Joellen. Obviously I can’t disclose the specifics of that meeting, but what I can tell you is that Michael has been removed as chief executive officer of this firm. He will not be returning.”

  I breathe, “But . . . I don’t . . . understand.”

  Michael’s father—a man with gunmetal-gray eyes and an imposing air who I’ve interacted with only briefly at holiday parties and the random company picnic—says brusquely, “My father started this company. I’ll be damned if my son is going to end it.”

  When the two attorneys shoot him agitated looks, several things dawn on me at once. I think of Maria, the copy editor who left suddenly before her promotion was announced, leaving a spot open for me, and of how Portia has hovered over me for years, watching Michael and me like a hawk, and not because she was in love with him.

  And of Sue Wong, youngest associate editor in the history of Maddox Publishing. Pretty, vivacious, ambitious Sue.

  “Wait. I’m not the first one he’s done this to, am I?”

  Sensing his cue, one of the attorneys stands. “Ms. Bixby, I have some documents we’d like you to sign—”

  “Ha!” My barked laugh stops the attorney cold. “Yeah, I bet you do, pal! Good luck with that!”

  “Your new position as associate editor has been approved by the board, Joellen,” says Portia calmly. “All you have to do is sign the paperwork.”

  I look around the table, and I have to laugh again. “Dudes. I know I’m not the sharpest tool in the shed, but I’m not signing anything without having my attorney review it.” My nonexistent attorney, I fail to add, but this is hardly the time for full disclosure. “And if you don’t want me to sue all your asses to kingdom come”—I make an unnecessarily dramatic gesture, encompassing everyone in the room, the building, and most of the state—“you’re going to leave me alone with Portia now so we can talk.”

  I level Portia with the same cold look she’s been giving me for years.

  “Unfortunately, that’s not possible,” starts attorney number one, but Portia stops him.

  “Give us five minutes, gentlemen.” She sweeps her cool blue gaze around the table. “Ruth. We’ll be fine. Please.”

  The way they all shuffle nervously out the door looks like they’re off to the firing squad. When we’re alone and the door has closed behind the last person, Portia and I engage in a staring duel.

  Of course I break first. The woman could work for the gestapo.

  “Why have you always been such a bitch to me?”

  She wasn’t expecting that. I can tell because she says, “I wasn’t expecting that.”

  “We’ll get to the Michael stuff in a sec. But it’s always really bothered me that you were so mean to me. I could never figure out why.”

  She glances down at her lap, smooths a hand over her perfectly smooth hair, does that prune imitation with her mouth. Then she sighs and meets my gaze. “Because you remind me so much of myself, and I hate it.”

  My jaw unhinges and lands on the table. “Me? I remind you of you? Are you nuts? We’re polar opposites!”

  She makes a queenly, dismissive gesture with her hand. “How I used to be, before I decided to stop letting life kick me in the teeth and grow some balls.” A ghost of a smile lifts her lips. “So to speak.”

  When I just stare at her with my mouth open like a gaping idiot, she looks at the ceiling and shakes her head. “I always hoped one day you’d have enough of me clapping at you and clap back. And you did, eventually. After I’d been through the entire dictionary of names that start with the letter J.”

  I’m floored. “Portia, that’s just . . . diabolical.”

  She laughs at my horrified face. “I had no idea you’d have so much patience, or I would’ve sat you down ten years ago and told you to stop being so accommodating.” Her smile fades. “Being nice is the worst thing a woman can be. Nice means you have to swallow your own feelings and focus on everyone else’s. Nice means you don’t speak up when you’re wronged. Nice means being a people pleaser and a conciliator and worrying yourself to death over others’ opinions. Nice means never getting what you really want.”

  “So we’re all just supposed to walk around being giant bitches?”

  She lifts a shoulder. “Th
at’s one way to do it. At least you’ll get respect. But what I really mean is that when you’re focused on being nice, you won’t tell a truth that needs telling, because the worst thing a nice girl could ever do is hurt someone’s feelings. A better thing to focus on is being real.”

  “Real,” I repeat doubtfully.

  “Authentic. Genuine. Live your truth. Let others live theirs. Don’t kiss anyone’s ass, but don’t be an asshole, either. It’s very simple.”

  The air whispering through the vents on the walls seems loud in the following silence. I say, “That was interesting. Also weird. I’m not sure how to respond.”

  Portia smiles a big toothy smile like I’ve never seen on her face. “That’s exactly what I mean!”

  “Okay, now you’ve totally lost me.”

  “Old Joellen would’ve found some nice, nonoffensive reply. Instead, you were real. Congratulations, there’s hope for you yet. I was also impressed by your little speech when you came in. Very real. Strong, angry, impressive. Good for you.”

  “I feel like I might be dreaming all this right now? Like I’m in a hospital bed somewhere, dopey on morphine and hooked up to a bunch of tubes?”

  Portia does the queenly hand wave again and gets down to business, apparently finished with the life lessons portion of the meeting. “The associate editor position is yours if you want it. You will, however, have to sign a nondisclosure agreement and a document releasing the firm from any future claim of sexual or emotional harassment arising from this incident with Michael.”

  She pierces me with her iceberg eyes. “You won’t be able to speak about the incident in the ladies’ room or your personal relationship with Michael, or publicly disparage Maddox Publishing in any way. If you do, you’ll be terminated, and the firm will pursue all available legal remedies against you.”

  I blink. “Wow. And here I thought we were bonding.”

  More gently, Portia says, “Michael won’t be back to the office, so you won’t have to deal with him again. On a personal note, I’d like to apologize to you.” She clears her throat, looking uncomfortable. “I saw this coming. There have been other incidents. It’s one of the reasons he was removed so quickly. I’m putting myself at legal risk by telling you that, but I think it’s important you know that what happened is in no way your fault.”

  I’m actually touched by this confession. Coming from her, it means a lot. “Thank you, Portia. That’s very civil of you.”

  Then there’s an awkward silence. It lasts until I finally say, “Okay, I’m going to be real now. This has been a lot to digest. I spent the last ten days thinking I was out of a job, and now I’ve got the promotion I always wanted. I’ve spent the last ten years thinking I was in love with a guy who, it turns out, is a prick. I’ve spent the last month living across the hall from a man who dresses like he’s auditioning for the circus, has an ego the size of the earth’s atmosphere, and screws like a champ.”

  I look at her, wide eyed. “Sorry, that last part was probably a little too much reality.”

  Her smile is tranquil. “Do go on. I’m enjoying this.”

  “I’m sure you don’t want to hear about, you know, the sex stuff, though.”

  She furrows her brows. “Why ever not? I assume you’re talking about the big rugged thing who strutted around like a rooster and had all the girls in an estrogen frenzy? He was quite the stud.”

  “Well, yeah, but . . .” This is awkward. Okay, just be real. She told you to be real. “I mean, it’s not like that’s your cup of tea.”

  The furrow between her brows grows deeper. “I might seem cold to you, Joellen, but I can assure you, a man like that is every woman’s cup of tea.”

  “Even a lesbian’s?”

  She stares at me for a while, blinking, then says, “It’s quite ignorant to assume a strong, no-nonsense, unmarried woman must be a lesbian. That’s really antiquated thinking.”

  “No, I don’t think that—Michael told me you were gay. He said your girlfriend was on the board of some charity with his wife.”

  I’m startled when she bursts into laughter.

  “Michael told you I was gay? Oh, that’s funny. No, Joellen, I’m not a lesbian. I just wasn’t interested in Michael, which was a novel experience for him. He’s a petty little liar. It just goes to show how small he is that he thinks calling me a lesbian is getting revenge. Idiot.”

  Overcome with shame at how naïve I was, I prop my head in my hands and groan. “He wasn’t even really getting divorced, was he?”

  “No. He’ll never divorce that dimwitted wife of his. She lets him do whatever he wants. Although now that he’s out of a job, she might divorce him.”

  After a moment, she sighs. “Just sign the papers and put this behind you, Joellen. You deserve the promotion. You’ve worked hard. Don’t let this opportunity pass by because of the way it came about. That would be a mistake.”

  Go ahead, luv. Tell me it’s all a mistake.

  I hear Cam’s words in my head, and suddenly I’m breathless with pain. What am I doing? What am I doing?

  I stand abruptly. Portia looks up at me, startled.

  I say, “Oh shit.”

  “What’s wrong?”

  Everything is coming at me at once. All the memories, all the emotions, all the things I wish I would have said but didn’t. My heart thundering, I close my eyes and inhale a deep breath.

  What. The. Fuck. Am. I. Doing?

  You already know, dummy.

  Thank God one of my inner voices has sense.

  “Portia, you’ll have to excuse me. I’ve got to go home and pack.”

  She rises, looking confused. “Pack? What are you talking about? Where are you going?”

  I turn and run from the room, hollering over my shoulder, “Scotland!”

  THIRTY-FIVE

  By the time the taxi drops me off in front of my apartment building, I’ve nearly wet myself in panic.

  The flight leaves in an hour. One hour. A span of sixty minutes to throw a suitcase together, get Mr. Bingley in his carrier with all his stuff, and get to the airport before boarding ends and no more passengers are allowed on the plane. Which is usually about fifteen minutes before the flight leaves, so I’ve really got only about forty-five minutes.

  Which means I’m going to be forced into one of those terrible, cliché romance movie endings where the hero finally realizes his love for the heroine and rushes to the airport in a car with all his friends, fighting crawling traffic and unnecessary street construction, until he arrives at the very last second before the plane takes off and declares his love, and all the friends cheer and get weepy, and then there’s a nice montage of romantic reunions in airports while the credits roll.

  Except instead of a carload of my friends it’ll just be Mr. Bingley.

  The elevator ride takes a thousand years. When it reaches my floor, I burst out of it and run smack into Mrs. Dinwiddle. We collide with an audible “Oof!” and go spinning in opposite directions. Even at eightysomething, in heels, she has better coordination than me. She winds up leaning glamorously against the hallway wall, while I end up on my ass on the carpet.

  I leap to my feet, shouting, “Mrs. Dinwiddle I’m so sorry I hope you’re not hurt I have to go pack I’m leaving right now for Scotland I’m not letting Cam get away!”

  I turn around and tear down the hallway without waiting for a response. My hands are so sweaty and shaky it takes about ten tries before I fit the key in the lock, but then the door swings open and I lurch inside, cursing like a drunken sailor.

  I sprint to the bedroom, drag the one suitcase I own out of the closet, toss it onto the bed, then start ripping clothes off hangers and hurling them into the suitcase with no regard for what they are or if anything matches. The ugly green coat my mother gave me when I moved to New York goes in, but then I throw it out because I really hate that thing.

  Mr. Bingley dozes peacefully between the pillows, unaware of the tornado occurring right in front of his face.


  From the open front door, Mrs. Dinwiddle calls, “Ducky? Yoo-hoo!”

  “I can’t talk right now Mrs. Dinwiddle I’m having a mental breakdown and I have to be at the airport in like ten seconds Cam’s flight is leaving can you please pick up my mail for me while I’m gone?”

  Everything comes out in one breathless rush as I storm back and forth from the closet to the bathroom to the suitcase, scooping up tampons and toothpaste and shoes and underwear and throwing it all onto the growing mass on the bed. Mrs. Dinwiddle appears at my bedroom door, looking amused.

  “So he finally convinced you, did he?”

  Something in her expression or her tone makes me stop and look at her. “Convinced me to do what?”

  “Fall in love with him.”

  When I stare at her blankly, she rolls her eyes. “What on earth did you think he was doing all this time, Ducky? Going around without shirts and offering to teach you how to kiss and having you make him dinner so he had an excuse to spend time with you?”

  I make an unattractive honking sound, my eyes bugging out of my head.

  “Oh yes, I know all about it,” she says, very smug. “He was smitten with you from the first. It was so romantic, I just had to help him, my dear!”

  “Help?” I repeat, my voice strangled.

  “Well,” she says regretfully, “you really are quite hopeless with men, Ducky.”

  I decide I’ll keel over dead later. Right now, I’ve got to get my hopeless ass to the airport. I start the packing rampage again.

  “Oh! Before I forget.” Mrs. Dinwiddle removes a small box from the pocket of her lounging robe and places it right on top of the mountain of clothes.

  I stare at it like it might be full of anthrax. “What is that?”

  “Your Christmas gift.”

  “Oh, that’s so sweet, Mrs. Dinwiddle. You shouldn’t have.”

  “I didn’t, my dear.”

  When I blink at her, she sighs, a great gusting sigh that manages to sound affectionate and disgusted and theatrical all at once. “It’s from Cameron. He gave it to me before he left to give to you.”