Julian flinched, and I watched his throat working as he swallowed hard. “I’m sorry.” He swallowed again. Once. Twice. “I thought we were friends. I had no idea I was making you feel uncomfortable.” He paused, his face so full of pain and poignant regret that it pierced my heart. “I thought I’d read you correctly. Obviously, I was wrong. Very wrong.” Another pause. “It was never my intention. I respect you more than that… I didn’t know. I didn’t know I’d crossed that line.”
He didn’t. And I wanted to take back my words and tell him that he’d never crossed that line, but I couldn’t bend my tongue to my will. “Well, now you know.”
“Believe me, I do.” A muscle tightened at the base of his jaw, as if he were holding back words.
“Say it,” I demanded. I didn’t know what I expected him to say. I guess I was half-expecting him to call me a heartless bitch.
There was a soft hiss of air as he inhaled sharply. “You’re a real piece of work. You know, some of us actually know how to keep our cool without being cold.”
I composed my features into an expression of calm and indifference, showing him that his words had no effect on me.
My game was so strong I could probably take the world poker tour and win.
“Don’t let that mask you’re wearing become your face, Miss Frost.”
His words pricked at something deep inside me. Annoyed, I opened my mouth to shoot back a scathing retort, but he’d already turned to leave.
I glared at his back until he’d stormed out of my office.
With the scent of him still lingering in the air, I stared at my computer screen, my heart pounding against my chest.
His presence had filled my office. Dwarfed it. Now that he no longer hovered so close by, my mind began to clear.
Then I got that sinking feeling of regret.
I felt sick at the way I’d acted when he was nothing but good to me.
I recognized my anger was excessive and misplaced, but at the time, I couldn’t seem to control it.
In truth, it wasn’t sexual harassment—never was—and I knew it.
I knew it because I’d experienced sexual harassment firsthand.
It happened six years ago, but it all came back to me in a rush.
I was the new girl at Hall and Heinrich—young, ever eager, the fresh face of innocence, looking to soak in the corporate world.
One morning, I was hauling some large boxes when Tim stopped and offered to help me. As he took the boxes from me, his fingers lightly grazed my breasts.
At first, I thought nothing of it, assuming it was merely an accident.
But later, after he’d dropped the boxes off at my desk, he winked at me suggestively. “So,” he said with a leer in his voice. “Do I get a little something in return for this?”
He smiled as if it were a joke we could both share.
I didn’t return the gesture.
Swallowing nervously, I felt the flutter of panic in my stomach, but I managed to keep my voice calm. “You get a thank you.”
Three days later, it happened again. I was grabbing a printout from the fax machine when Tim came up behind me and I felt the hard press of his hips against my lower back, the erection beneath his pants as he ground himself against my ass.
Horrified, I twisted my body like a contortionist to get away from him.
When I called him out, he simply shrugged his shoulders elaborately. “I was just trying to grab a fax,” he said. Then a sick grin twisted his mouth. It made my insides turn.
“Were you?” My lips trembled and I found my voice getting away from me.
Tim must have read it as a sign of weakness because he took a step forward. “That’s all it was. Don’t let your imagination run wild, Miss Frost.”
After that accidently-on-purpose incident, I avoided Tim like the bubonic plague.
But the more I avoided him, the more he came on to me, never missing an opportunity to remind me of my vulnerability. Things finally came to a tipping point at the company’s annual holiday party. Drunk and belligerent, he cornered me as I was heading to the ladies room.
“No hard feelings,” I told him. “But I’m not interested.”
Tim pressed me up against the wall. “Feel that?” He drew me firmly against the hard ridge of his erection. “That’s the hard feeling I get every time I look at you. And, bitch, you know you want this, you dirty little cunt.”
“Get off me!” I shoved at his chest with both hands. Gritting my teeth, I skewed him with a searing glare. Gone was my Midwestern Pleasant Face. Tim got a taste of my Bitch Face and a nice accessory that came with that—a bitch slap. “If you ever touch me again, I will report you to HR.”
My threat must have hit him harder than the slap, because Tim finally backed off.
He never dared lay a finger on me after that.
But the name-calling, the mocking, and the belittling—all that never stopped.
So that’s when I learned to perfect my Chronic Bitch Face. It became a necessity at the office, and it kept away pretty much all unwanted contact from Tim.
I’d always been conditioned to be polite, to smile, and thus, bearing unwanted advances from men like Tim. And it was liberating when I realized it was okay to tell people to fuck off if they made me feel uncomfortable.
But Julian never made me feel uncomfortable. And he was nothing at all like Tim.
Though he flirted with me, his flirting was never overtly sexual. He never made explicit comments about my appearance, nor did he ever cross the line.
Perhaps he’d thought about it. It was hard to ignore the undercurrents of sexual tension between us, but he always remained a consummate professional and a true gentleman in my presence.
And I’d be lying to myself if I said I wasn’t sexually attracted to him.
Hell, even I had thought about crossing the line when the sexual tension heightened to a painful state.
And I liked the attention. I enjoyed his company.
So why did I do that to him?
Why did I push him away?
I pulled in a shaky breath and told myself it was better this way.
Perhaps it was a form of self-preservation.
He made me feel out of control, exposed, and I hated to feel that way.
Control was what I’d gained over the years, and I didn’t ever want to let go of it again.
Chapter Eleven
Sexual harassment.
Sadie’s words were like a physical blow. I felt as if she’d just landed a hard kick in my gut, sending all the air whooshing from my lungs.
I felt confused. I didn’t know what to do, how to feel.
Yes, no doubt about it, I was attracted to her sexually, intellectually, emotionally, and I’d flirted with her mercilessly. But was it sexual harassment? I asked myself.
The more I thought about it, the more I began to question myself.
Did I misinterpret the signs?
Did I misread her body language? Her cues?
Fuck. I put my hands over my face and scrubbed it, trying to restore my wits.
I genuinely thought I’d read her correctly.
Now the rush of emotions started to hit me, and I was beginning to understand the impact of her accusations.
If Sadie brought these allegations to HR, it would be the end of my career at this firm.
There was a huge grey area between flirting and harassment.
But there was no doubt in my mind that the clear line drawn between the two was only visible in the eyes of a woman.
Not the man. Not me.
That’s the way HR would approach it at least.
One accidental misstep and I’d be viewed as the perpetrator.
It made my stomach turn. I felt dirty and disgusted with myself. I’d never thought of myself as one of those creeps who tried to pass off harassment as harmless flirtation.
That wasn’t me.
When it came to dating women, I’d always gone after what I wanted, and I
wanted Sadie. But I’d never meant to cross over from flirting into harassment territory.
As I walked back to my desk, Tim cut me a smug look. “Told ya,” he remarked scornfully. “That woman is cold, man. Ice cold.”
Somehow I managed to get through the morning in a daze, retreating into my misery, turning over Sadie’s accusations and my own self-recriminations in my head.
By noon, I’d convinced myself that regardless if it were intended or not, unintended harassment was still harassment, and Sadie had a right to call me out for it.
I wanted to see her, to apologize again, but she was gone. When I checked with her assistant, she informed me Sadie had left the office for the day.
For a time, I sat at my desk, twirling a pen, staring blankly at my computer screen. Then I pulled up Outlook and began typing an email.
You were right, Sadie. Again, I’m truly sorry. It will never happen again.
I had barely closed down Outlook when Tim appeared at my desk. “C’mon.” He clapped a hand to my shoulder. “Let’s go for a drink. You look like you could use one.”
“Sure,” I said hollowly, even though Tim was the last person I wanted to have a drink with. “Why not?”
At The Boar’s Head pub, we sat at the bar, throwing back scotch.
“This is some good shit!” Tim swirled the amber liquid in his glass. “If I could inject this shit into my balls, I would.”
I just ignored him.
“Bartender!” he called. “Hit me up with another scotch, and get my friend here another round, too.”
Try as I might, I couldn’t get my mind off Sadie. She was still an enigma to me. Complex, complicated, a hotbed of intrigue.
She fought so hard to put on that hard front, but to me that tough, illusive shell was as transparent as air.
I’d seen her when her guard was down, trying to tame her breathing in the lobby the night of the holiday party.
I’d seen the change in her when she was relaxed around me and she was just being Sadie—the warm laughter behind her eyes when something amused her, the sweet consideration behind her words when she talked about her son.
I’d seen her looking frightened and confused this morning, fighting to hold back tears.
I could tell she was hurting. Something was weighing heavily on her mind—but what? I did not know.
“Forget about her.” Tim threw back another scotch. “I’ve said it a million times and I’ll say it again, she’s fucking crazy!”
“She’s not.” I frowned, staring into my drink, trying to figure her out. She was like a damn Rubik’s Cube I couldn’t solve. “I think being in control makes her feel safe,” I mused out loud. “And she’s so controlled, so guarded that she comes across as unfeeling. But she’s really not. She has a soft side. A tender side that she tries to hide.”
“Soft and tender side?” Tim scoffed. “Soft as a brick, maybe. And she’s about as tender as a leather whip.”
“You don’t see what I see.” I was silent a moment before continuing. “She’s sharp, witty, beautiful, complicated and, when she lets loose, very funny.”
“She’s funny?” Tim balked, choking on his words as he downed his drink.
“I can’t explain it… but when I’m with her, we’re at ease and we laugh a lot together.”
“Fuck.” Tim snorted with laughter. “Now that’s fucking hilarious. How do you even get past her chronic bitch face? I’ve never seen her crack a smile.” He paused. “Actually, I take that back. One time, she smiled at me and I swear she looked like a delusional axe murderer. Scary as fuck, I tell ya!”
The bartender set another scotch in front of me and I slammed it back, barely flinching as it trod fire down the back of my throat.
It was good scotch. And good scotch—with its pungent, peaty aroma, and long, lingering finish—should never be slammed.
It should be savored.
But right now, I didn’t have the capacity to savor anything.
Right now, I couldn’t give a flying fuck.
Sighing, I signaled the bartender for another drink and he returned soon after with a glass of Chivas. This would make it my fifth glass of scotch.
“Hey,” Tim slurred. “Fret not, compatriot. I say fuck rejection in the arse! Look, I know you’re all bent out of shape, but you’ll get over her. Trust me, you will.”
We worked together. Getting over Sadie wouldn’t be easy. “How?” I found myself asking.
Tim didn’t miss a beat. “Hook up with someone else. Someone with a warm, beating heart.”
I closed my eyes and exhaled hard. It was too soon.
Much too soon.
And she wouldn’t be Sadie.
“And I know just the person,” Tim continued before I could protest. “Riley Jones.”
Riley was a lovely girl, but she just wasn’t my type.
As if he knew precisely what I was thinking, Tim said, “I know Riley craves the attention and that girl can’t keep her mouth shut. But when she’s not busy spreading rumors, she’s busy spreading her legs.” He clapped my shoulder. “And right now, son, you’d have a little more pep in your step if you got a little V on your P. Know what I’m saying?”
I didn’t want to talk about Riley. I didn’t care about Riley. “Sadie said I sexually harassed her.” I lifted my glass and took a swig. “Me.”
“I know,” Tim said without expression.
I studied him with narrowed eyes. “How do you know?”
When he spoke again, his voice turned a shade darker. “Let’s just say I’m not overly surprised. That psychopath loves to cry wolf.”
It didn’t sink in right away, but when it did, nausea roiled in my stomach. “Wait—what? Are you telling me she accused you of sexual harassment, too?”
“It was years ago.” His face grew serious. “And I was just being friendly. That’s the God’s honest truth.”
I stared at him. “What exactly did she do?”
His expression was stone and he didn’t waver. “Threatened to go to HR with sexual harassment allegations.”
“The fuck.” I scrubbed a hand over my scalp. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I just did.”
After a heavy pause, I said, “Did she ever follow through?”
“She did. And I’m fucking lucky as hell I didn’t get canned. That woman has a viper mouth and a vengeful streak, I’m telling you. Bitch needs to stay in her lane! Why do you think I always give it back to her?”
I drained my scotch in one gulp and stared into my empty glass.
Perhaps I was wrong about Sadie.
Could she be this spiteful? This malicious? It just seems so cruel and callous.
“She is,” Tim said, already reading my thoughts. “She’s fucking spiteful.”
The bartender returned to pour me another scotch and I sat in silence, nursing my drink. Thinking.
All the while, I could feel Tim watching me. Judging. Assessing. Weighing.
“So she can do what she wants, but how the fuck is that empowering?” he demanded. “Is that the kind of thing that makes her think she’s achieved equality? I don’t fucking understand why she’s so eager to paint herself as a victim, blaming us for what happens to her. If she wants to be treated as an equal, then she should put out what she’d like to get back and not hide behind sexual harassment when we don’t treat her with kid gloves. I mean, how many damn times is Sadie gonna cry wolf with all her fucked up allegations of sexism and harassment before one of our asses is on the line? Huh? How many?” His voice pitched higher. “Just lies, I tell you! Fucking lies that come out of that lying liar hole!”
A hot sickness churned inside me and I felt my gut clench like a fist.
Have I made a horrible miscalculation about Sadie?
Tim let that uncomfortable thought sink in before speaking again. “I told you, man. “Stay away from that sadist bitch. Do yourself a favor and go watch that movie Gone Girl.”
I expelled a weary sigh. “What’s
it about?”
Tim snorted. “A raging, ice-blooded, manipulative psychopath who completely ruins a guy in the most fucked up possible way.”
His words rumbled all the way down to my bones. I threw back my scotch and slammed the glass on the counter.
The warning was clear and this time I took heed.
Chapter Twelve
“How are you feeling, E?” I remarked casually as we started down a well-worn path off the hospital grounds. We rounded a corner that curved into a lush garden where we found ourselves surrounded by hibiscus in bloom, hanging orchids, and beds of bougainvillea. The air was heavy with humidity and the heady scent of jasmine.
A nice change, I thought, after being cooped up in the car for the two-hour drive to St. Margaret’s Children’s Hospital, followed by the hour-long wait in the stuffy ward before Evan’s lengthy checkup.
“I’m okay,” Evan said. “Just tired.”
By now the sun was sinking behind the clouds and our shadows were lengthening.
I took a moment to appreciate the strawberry sorbet sunset.
Relief came with the dusk, a sense of everything being all right, at least for the next six months until Evan’s next cardiology checkup.
His sats (oxygen saturation levels) were great, his heart sounded good, and there were no significant changes to his last echo. I almost whooped with joy when Dr. Bonner cleared him for the next six months.
“You were so brave today,” I told Evan.
He blinked at me, his expression cautiously hopeful. “Do I get a prize for being brave?”
I laughed. “Whatever you want, buddy.”
When we neared a park bench, Evan ignored it in favor of sitting on the lawn. He flopped onto his back on a thick patch of grass with his arms and legs flung apart, like he was about to make snow angels.
I smiled, thinking back to when he went through a phase of ripping the grass out by its roots and shoving it into his mouth.
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