by Julie Olivia
Well now I’m irritated.
“I don’t think I’ve ever seen Ian Chambers so quiet,” I say, walking behind him, trying my best to keep up with his long strides.
“I’m quiet?” he asks.
“Don’t play dumb.”
“I’m just tired.” The automatic doors to the entrance slide open and we walk through. The lights hum and buzz above us, and it’s just one extra layer of sound that isn’t him being an asshole. I didn’t realize how much I would miss his stupid comments until they were gone.
“Yeah, sorry we kept you out late.” I try to steer us back to the issue at hand. Something happened last night that I don’t remember, and I’ll be damned if it stays up in the air.
“Don’t worry about it,” he says.
“What happened last night?” I ask. Ian walks toward the elevator, and I follow.
“Don’t you have to go to the beach or something?” he asks.
Is he trying to get rid of me?
“Really—what happened?” I ask again. He pushes the button to the elevator, and when the doors ding open, I follow him in. This ride doesn’t carry the same weight that it did yesterday. It’s just the two of us, but we’re not pressed against the walls of the elevator or sneaking secretive touches. I’m staring at him and he’s finally looking back at me, eyes narrowed, slowly letting out an exhalation.
He’s smoldering because it’s impossible for him not to. It’s the stubble, the eyes, the strong arms peeking out from under his sleeves…all of it—though I get the sense that he’s not intentionally trying to turn me on.
“The rest of the wedding crowd will be coming in today,” he says, running his hands through his curly locks. “I should really get some sleep. I was up late.”
When he keys into his room, I’m stuck standing there—dumbfounded, confused, and heartbroken.
Again.
32
Nia
Two years ago
I’m turning thirty-three, and I’m processing the paperwork for a twenty-seven-year-old woman who had a riotous affair with her thirty-five-year-old boss.
I’m getting too old for this.
It’s Friday and our company is having its usual get-together in the renovated warehouse. Ian and I are the only people still working in the main office, and my door is shut as we discuss the issue at hand. Our creative director, Cameron, and his junior designer, Grace, are sleeping together—or, were sleeping together? The details are fuzzy.
Ian stands beside me, hands on his hips, exhaling at the write-up on my laptop. He’s normally on board with investigation, but his best friend seems like the exception.
“We don’t need to look further into this. We’ll file it and call it a day,” he says, crossing his arms and pacing to the other side of the desk.
“Not doing your job now?” I ask. I don’t like it when Ian and I butt heads professionally. Sure, on a more personal level, we’re like oil and water, but in a work environment, we don’t usually have issues. For an HR and lawyer duo, I could have worse.
Except, in this mood, I definitely feel less confident in our partnership.
“She’s not pressing charges, so why are we bothering?” he asks.
“This sets a precedent for future co-worker relations.”
“Good,” he says. “Then let’s develop a policy that actually makes sense.”
I’m quiet, leaning back in my chair and rocking. “And what do you propose?” I ask.
“Work relationships allowed as long as it’s not between an employee and their manager.”
“Except that’s exactly what just happened, so how do we follow through? If we’re going with precedent and all.”
It feels odd to speak with Ian about work relationships. I’ve spent years staring at his jawline, his chest, his ass… It’s inappropriate, but I’ve kept it to myself for the most part—except for telling Harry, who is relentless with his jokes. I think even Cara has picked up on it. If I hear her say, “Who is Ian?” one more time, I might commit myself.
“I’m just saying that, for example, if you and I were to get together, there would be no ramifications in this imaginary policy.”
My stomach curls in on itself. My posture tightens. I can feel nothing else but anxiety coursing through my veins mixed with something akin to butterflies. How do I react to that? This isn’t a conversation I want to have.
Just as I’m contemplating saying something—anything—his eyebrows lift as if he just realized what came out of his mouth. It was inappropriate, yet the confidence of it all is what turns my nerves into a Slinky, slowly bouncing its way down my body.
“It’s hypothetical,” he says quickly. His hands drop to his sides and he lets out a forced, stuttered laugh, looking at some corner in the office. He can’t meet my eyes. “I…wow, I’m sorry. That… you know I don’t date co-workers.”
“Yes,” I say. It’s the only thing I can get out. I shake my head. I try not to let out an equally awkward laugh, but instead I think it’s best to keep the conversation rolling.
“Nia, I didn’t mean to—”
“Don’t worry about it,” I say. I force a smile, rolling my chair forward to absentmindedly check email. There’s nothing new, unless you count my steadily increasing jumbled thoughts.
We do need a new policy, but even if this were a different proposal and any office relationship were banned, how off limits would it be, exactly? Cameron and Grace got away with it—but, no. What the heck am I thinking? I look up to see Ian walking back around. His scent is intoxicating. In my peripheral, I see his toned forearms, his large veined hands, and the bit of bulge just barely visible below his brown leather belt.
He’s attractive. That’s never been issue, but in this moment, with all these possibilities right in front us—the fact that Grace and Cameron skirted the ramifications of their work affair—I’m second-guessing every thought I’ve had about him. I feel weak. My nipples harden, and I cross my arms to hide them.
“We should get going,” I say. “We’ll finish this Monday. I’m sure Beer Friday can’t possibly go on without you.”
I stand and we’re close—more so than I intended. His eyes look down and bore into me. I can see his chest rising and falling as mine mimics the motion.
I wonder—not for the first time—what it would be like to press my lips against his. Would I feel his stubble brush over my chin? Would I feel a forbidden sensation, overwhelmed by butterflies and the heavy hands on my waist? His breath is close…almost close enough to capture.
My hand twitches against the crook of my arm. They’re crossed but begging to be released—into his hair, onto his jaw, down his chest… If I were a more reckless woman, he could take me on this desk. My back might hit the keyboard and I would wonder if my ass might send a couple nonsensical emails with things like “sdnghuighdi” or “fbdsfdsg.” But, hey, we all make sacrifices for a hot fantasy.
I’m ready to get on my toes and move closer. I even feel myself rising a centimeter, but then he lets out a laugh, and the moment feels split by some invisible axe. The room’s temperature shifts, and I’m brought back to the present moment.
Fuck.
Fuck.
Shit.
What the hell was I thinking? What the absolute shit did I almost do?
It’s weird, though—he lets out a chuckle and looks into another corner. Yeah, he’s definitely avoiding eye contact now.
“You’re…this is…” He laughs again, and I feel so mortified. I have humiliated myself. Me, the responsible employee, the one with a solid head on her shoulders, almost just let go. I could have lost everything.
“What?” If I can just pretend that moment, whatever it was, didn’t happen then maybe it will go away.
“I didn’t mean to make you feel uncomfortable,” he says.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I don’t date co-workers,” he repeats. “I swear I wouldn’t do anything like that.”
I jerk my head up to him. He’s cringing at himself, and I want to tell him I was the one to make that moment awkward, but I can’t bring myself to do it. He can’t know I almost caved. After years and years of whatever he’s been hinting at, I don’t want him to have the satisfaction of knowing I could have tossed away every moral I have for him.
How absolutely stupid am I?
“What are you getting at?” I ask, lifting an eyebrow as high as it can go as if to shove my head in the sand, pure ostrich-style. Maybe he knows I know. Maybe he doesn’t, but I’m not taking chances.
“Nothing,” he says on an exhalation. He shoves his hands in his pockets and walks to the door, looking back before opening it. “We’ll work on the policy Monday.”
“Sure,” I shoot back. I don’t look up from my computer when he leaves, though I do notice he does me the courtesy of closing the door. As such, I cup my face in my hands and let myself break into nervous shakes.
I’m angry. I’m sad. I’m disappointed in the woman I’ve become. I almost lost control. That isn’t me. That can’t be me. But…a small voice in my head wonders what could have happened. I know there’s something there. At the core of it all, I’m a smart woman, and I’ve learned how to read Ian. He flirts, but it must have deeper meaning. He teases other employees, but it’s me who takes the brunt of it. I’m the one he visits the most. My office is practically his office—much to both my disdain and my comfort.
I can’t sit here and brood over this. I need to get out. I need to experience some type of social interaction that doesn’t involve a handsome man or employee relations that somehow feel too close to home now.
I pack my bag, shoving my laptop in with its charger and placing it in the corner. Maybe for once Beer Friday will do me some good. Ian is there, but I can easily blend into the crowd. We just finished a project. The warehouse will be packed.
And so it is. I try to make small talk with the accounting department, the sales guys, and even our receptionist, Saria. She seems less than interested, but she always seems disinterested in conversation with me. HR can’t win them all.
I’m abandoned, and the feeling of loneliness overtakes me. I don’t care about how others view me or about having close friends. I depend on my family for that. Even so, after tonight, it feels almost insulting.
Maybe I’ll go home and cuddle with the cat. Maybe I’ll even throw on The Office. Then again, maybe not. At the thought of Jim and Pam, I think maybe I’ll settle with something else like Rambo. My brother says it always makes him feel empowered. I think Amazon has camo headbands…
I head to my car, contemplating calling my brother for more suggestions involving men who mean business, and distantly I see Ian near his car. And then—Saria, with her pleather skirt and tucked-in shirt, standing just beside the passenger door, balancing sexy and professional all at once. He has a nervous smile on his face as she crawls in, or is it anticipation?
He’s taking her home.
Tears well in my eyes. My neck feels hot, even though my hands are cold and clammy.
He doesn’t date co-workers.
Why would he tell me that if it was untrue? And of course he’s secretly with the youngest woman here. She must be, what, more than ten years his junior? And he’s the lawyer, the hot one with all the power, loading her into his car.
This is disgusting, and it hurts. It hurts to know I was right all along. All these years, all this back and forth, and all I am is the HR professional he can get a rise out of.
How hilarious that must have been, to tease the stiff, to break her down just enough so she almost caves—and then he goes back to his secret, younger girlfriend.
He’s a tease. He plays with people, and I’m the idiot who actually thought he liked me.
I’m at work. I’m a professional.
And I’m turning thirty-three.
Grow up, Nia.
33
Nia
Present day
The remainder of the day is a whirlwind of wedding stuff. That’s as elegantly as I can put it: stuff.
It’s not that I’m opposed to weddings or that I don’t intend to get married one day, but I was also just dismissed by a man I’ve tried to convince myself not to like as he made advances toward me over the past few years.
Talk about irony.
I wish I could take it all back—the night of passion between Ian and me, feeling comfortable with him, promising a round two. He told me this is what he wanted yet somehow I’m the one left upset and, quite frankly, angry.
It seems almost unreal to be as sad as I was, but hours later when I’m lying on Grace’s bed, I’m less sad and instead angry. I’m still mulling over the thought that maybe, just maybe, Ian Chambers has broken my heart. Again.
I clench my fists tighter.
That fucker.
“Have you spoken to your future baby daddy yet?” Ramona asks Grace, bouncing on the end of the bed with her legs crossed and fingers typing away on her phone.
“No,” Grace replies. She’s at the desk, compact mirror open in front of her while she tilts her head side to side as if considering what type of makeup she’s going to wear.
“You probably should,” Corinne singsongs from the sliding glass door, peering out at the ocean with a small flute of champagne relaxed in her hand.
“I’m gonna try this thing where I pretend to make him my husband first,” Grace says, inhaling sharply and shutting the mirror with zero makeup achieved. The rehearsal is in a couple hours; I didn’t think it was possible to be nervous about a fake wedding, but I’m also not marrying someone tomorrow.
Grace twists in her chair, gripping the back with both hands. “Who wants to go eat tons of donuts? I’m pregnant and eating my feelings.”
We all stare, and Ramona is the first to respond with, “Yes, where can we get donuts right now?”
“Practical question,” Grace says, pointing a finger at me. “Exactly what I expected from the maid of honor, and I love it.”
“Oh god, yes, I could totally go for donuts,” Corinne responds, plunking her flute down on the TV stand.
I’m sprawled out starfish-style, and while it’s difficult to justify moving from this bed that feels like a sea of clouds, I also don’t feel it’s appropriate to say, Sorry bride, I’m too irritated to speak, but thank you for the offer of donuts.
Instead, I say, “Absolutely!” and force a smile that’s almost as stiff as dry concrete. Thankfully, my lips move as directed, and there I am standing with my purse slung over my shoulder and what I can only imagine is a twitchy smile a la the Joker from Batman.
“Wait,” Ramona says, running to a tote bag slung over the desk chair and rummaging through it. She pulls out a pair of sunglasses. When she places them on, they overtake her face, giving her the look of a giant fly.
“Protection,” she says. “Everyone will be looking for the bride, so we need to be sneaky.”
She turns around and pulls out three more pairs of sunglasses, and I’m starting to think this bag is some type of magical wizarding purse belonging to Hermione or Mary Poppins.
“Protection, protection, protection,” she repeats each time she places a pair in our hands.
“That advice would have helped Gracie here a while ago,” Corinne says.
Grace shoves the glasses up the bridge of her nose and lifts a fiery eyebrow. “Watch yourself, girls. Mama’s coming through.”
I put my sunglasses on and wonder why we’re going the Clark Kent route. These glasses aren’t some invisibility cloak. Grace’s hair color alone can be noticed from a mile away.
But I also wonder if this would conceal my identity from Ian if he were to pass by. Since when am I spineless?
I answer my own question when, to my absolute misfortune, the second I walk through the door, Wes and Ian are at the opposite end of the hallway, leaving his room.
Since now. I am spineless right now.
I look at the parking lot over the balcony railing, try
ing to seem aloof. The men’s hands are full of decorations, and before I can wonder why, Ramona is already pumping her arms and powerwalking over to them.
“Okay, you remember where this goes, right?” she starts. I hear Wes groan, then nothing. My brain processes zero sounds moving past their lips. It’s like a ringing goes through my ears when I shift my gaze to the one man I promised myself I would not look at. The world freezes, and I am instantly, unabashedly staring at Ian like some creep behind binoculars.
Normally, his eyes would be locked on me as well, icy blues tearing through me with an accompanying sly grin, equally unashamed—but not this time. Not right now.
Ian laughs at something Ramona says, shrugs as if to dismiss her, then starts walking toward me. I need to say something. He can’t just walk past me without saying anything, right?
“Hey.” Wow, that’s the absolute best I can do? I am an adult and I only know how to say things like Hey.
“Hey,” he responds. Good—at least I’m not the only awkward one here.
“Can we talk?” I ask. He looks to Wes then back at me as if requesting permission. What does he think? I’m some seductress evil witch dragging him to my cave to make boyfriend soup?
“Yeah, sure.” He shrugs. “Hang on a sec, Wes.”
“Oooh, someone is in trouble,” Wes says, poking his bottom lip out. This earns him a small shove from Ramona.
“Do you want to be in trouble later?”
“No ma’am.”
Ian follows me to the end of the hall. The lightbulb above us is flickering, which seems a bit out of place for such a nice resort—though I’m starting to question this fact at all—but then again maybe it’s reflecting how faint my relationship with Ian seems to be. I am a Shakespearian tragedy waiting to happen.
We reach the end—far enough that the others probably cannot hear us—and I turn on my heel to face him. His expression is stoic as he stares back at me. I catch a whiff of him, and his scent runs through me like a devil’s pitchfork poking every inch of my senses, stabbing my anxiety.
