The questions came in a steady stream until almost eleven, at which time my gut grouched about my having ignored snack time. I ended up cross-legged on the floor, lounging back against my elbows while he continued to pace the whole time, cursing to himself. My luck held. He must have looked up the trivia online, because I’d seen all of the questions before on one website or another.
“Are you going to ask me about the picture now, Mr. Hathaway?” I asked out of sheer pique.
He bent over the desk and propped himself up on his arms, head hanging forward as if exhaustion had smashed into him. “What was written on the English Bulldog’s tag?”
Without so much as a second’s hesitation, I said, “Daisy. Anything else?”
He slammed his hand on the desk and whirled around. I scrambled to my feet, choking on my pulse.
“Where did you train?” An accusing finger jabbed in my direction.
“Train? You mean, like high school?”
“No, Ms. Ross. College. Where did you go to college?”
“I-I didn’t. After high school I studied on my own and wrote the exams to get all of my Microsoft certifications.”
“Ridiculous.” His fingers traveled through his curls with disgust as if he’d found them in disarray. “You’re uneducated. You must have cheated.”
I narrowed my eyes at him, tried to kill him with my glare—pity that it didn’t work—and pressed my curled fists against my hips. “Excuse me? I’m not uneducated, thank you very much, Mr. Hoity Toity, and I didn’t cheat. How could I have? You watched me the whole time. You asked and I answered, fair and square.”
“Tell me how you knew the answers. Nobody knows all the answers.” He straightened and tipped his face up to look at the ceiling.
My cheeks burned, and a growl rumbled low in my throat. “So you set me up to fail. Why? Do you really believe I’m worthless because I happen to have tits? God, what’s the matter with you?” I glared at the floor, my mind off on its own little rampage. How dare he? I was so sick of the good ole boys club. It wasn’t my fault I wasn’t born with a dick. Christ.
He turned his back to me. “Get out.”
“Gladly!” I launched the word at him like a cannonball and hoped it would smash him in the face, knocking a few of his perfectly straight, white teeth out in the process.
I strode to the door, pulled it open, and didn’t stop again until I made it to the elevator. Brent called to me, but I didn’t hear what he said.
On the way down to the second floor, I collapsed against the mirrored wall, digging fingernails into my palms against the tears. I loved my job. I’d worked so hard to get it, and in a few seconds of anger in the face of a royal prick, might have destroyed it all. The same question I’d asked Cameron came back to me. How could anyone get like that? No wonder my boss had such issues with the man.
One foot in front of the other, I moved on autopilot back to my office. A sick sort of numbness took over as I accepted my fate. More than losing my job, disappointing Cameron weighed on me the heaviest. The one time he trusted me to do something important and I’d blown it all to hell in less than a day. He’d never trust me again. If I even worked for him by the time he returned. Hathaway would fire me for sure after that. How would I pay the bills until I found another job?
Deep breaths calmed me a little. Until security escorted me to the door, I’d continue to work and hold my head high. To do anything else would go against my moral code and work ethic. Those, I learned from Mom.
I slumped at my desk. The BlackBerry vibrated on my belt. Thankful it wasn’t Mr. Hathaway’s phone, I unclipped it and looked at the screen. It was a message from my dad: Your mother wants you to come over for dinner Sunday night. Six o’clock. Don’t be late.
My mother wanted me to come? Would it kill him to say “we want you to come?” Nope, he had to let me know he could care less if I came or not, had to get his digs in just to satisfy whatever sick sense of satisfaction he got from putting me down. I shut the phone off and threw it on top of the desk. It clashed with a tower of motherboards and sent the whole mess sliding into the wall. The worst side effect of having a photographic memory was that I couldn't forget anything, even when I wanted to. Dad’s message, along with the disdain on his face when he looked at me, would remain etched on my mind forever.
My heart sank into my shoes when I thought about how Dad would react. A little glimmer of glee would show in his eyes when I told him I’d been fired. That too would stay with me until I died.
“Bad day?” Jeremy sat on the corner of my desk and cleaned his glasses with the bottom of his shirt.
I laughed, because I didn’t want to cry. “I’m pretty sure this is the worst day I’ve ever had. In fact, I’m pretty sure you’ll be getting a call from Mr. Hathaway any minute to disable my accounts.”
Jeremy pulled his glasses on and leaned forward. “Whatcha mean? Shit, dude, what the hell happened?”
I scratched my head, one corner of my lips pulled up in an attempt at a smile. “I sort of … went off on him for being a total asshat.”
Paul’s pudgy face appeared above the cubicle wall that separated our workstations, his gray eyes popped open wide. “Oh, you’re so dead, Eva.”
“Yeah.” I rubbed the back of my aching neck and let my head fall back. “I know.”
By some miracle, four thirty rolled around with no call from either security or the Big Cheese. I went home for the weekend, clinging to a small hope that Mr. Hathaway might have a shred of humanity left in his twisted self somewhere. That, or he planned to make a big show of my exit when Cameron returned. Knowing what I had learned about Mr. Hathaway, the latter seemed like the more likely scenario.
* * * *
I knocked on my parents’ door at five thirty sharp on Sunday night, bearing a loaf of ciabatta bread from the bakery near work and a bottle of Mom’s favorite sparkling water.
Dad opened the door, looked me up and down as if he didn’t recognize me, and grunted some sort of Neanderthal greeting. He’d been doing that for thirty years, and it never became any more amusing. He stepped out of the way so I could walk past his broad shoulders.
“Nice to see you too, Dad.” I shrugged out of my coat and hung it by the door. The wonderful aroma of roast chicken greeted me, drawing me toward the warmth of the kitchen where Mom would be.
Dad, wearing his typical uniform of green work pants and plaid shirt, grunted some more and sat in his easy chair by the fireplace, picked up his paper, and erected a wall of newsprint between us. A lump formed in my throat and threatened to choke me. No matter how many times he ignored me, I never got used to it.
“Evangeline!” Mom took the bread and water from me and set them on the counter that separated the kitchen from the living room. She threw her slender arms around me and held tight for a moment before pushing me out to arm’s length. “Oh, Eva dear, you look so tired.” Her fine eyebrows fell over loving brown eyes. She touched my forehead with the backs of her cold fingers. “Are you sick, sweetheart?”
I stepped away and manufactured a smile that wouldn’t have fooled a monkey. “No, I’ve had a hard time sleeping the last couple of nights, that’s all.”
“Why? Is everything all right?” She tamed a stray lock of her dark chocolate hair by winding it around her finger and tucking it behind her ear.
I took Mom’s hand and led her into the kitchen. “Everything’s fine. I just have a—I guess you could call it a puzzle I’m trying to solve at work and it’s on my mind.”
That and I’d woken up in the middle of the night after dreaming about ripping the shirt off of Mr. Hathaway to get a better look at those abs of his and tangled my fingers into his hair as I searched for his tonsils with my tongue. The effects of the imagery still zinged through my core better than a touch to an electric fence.
Disgust with myself had overruled the throbbing ache between my legs. Stupid subconscious mind. How could I think those pornographic thoughts about him, no matter how good-l
ooking he was? It was just sick.
The three of us sat in the dining room for supper, Mom’s usual mammoth feast spread before us. Garlic mashed potatoes, glazed carrots, chicken browned to perfection yet still moist and succulent, complete with stuffing. She never did anything halfway. Every time I came over, it was like Christmas dinner all over again. A centerpiece of lilies and baby’s breath adorned the center of it all, its sweet tangy scent mingling with the delicious air.
Mom heaped potatoes onto my plate with a genuine smile. Some people enjoyed gardening or photography or scrapbooking. Mom enjoyed cooking and entertaining. It made her come alive. “So tell us what’s been happening at Hathaway’s,” she said.
His name made me shift in my seat and sent a strange sensation crawling down my belly. I wasn’t sure if it was a good or bad one. “I’ve actually been working for Mr. Hathaway for the last two days while Cameron’s off with his wife and new baby boy.”
Dad’s fork clanked against his plate. His lip curled up in a sneer. “How did you get that job?”
Mom swallowed so hard I heard it. Usually, I let it pass for her, but after all of the crap with Mr. Hathaway, I’d had enough.
I took Mom’s hand and squeezed it. She dropped her gaze, and I set my focus back on the man across the table. “What do you mean, Dad?” I asked in a flat voice, steeling myself for what I knew was coming.
His chin jutted out. “I’m asking what you did for him to get the job?”
My stomach twisted and stole away any hunger I had to eat Mom’s meal. “Are you asking me if I blew my boss? Because that’s what it sounds like to me.”
“Eva!” Mom reached out, but I stood and leaned toward the man who’d adopted me.
He met my glare with eyes that held no affection. No warmth, only cold darkness and accusations. “Well, did you? I still don't understand how you got the position there in the first place. It’s not as if you’re a genius or have a winning personality.”
“You’re unbelievable, you know that?” I balled up my napkin and threw it onto the table. “You think all women have to perform sexual favors to get an opportunity?” My hands flew into wild gestures. “Oh, sorry. I forgot. I’m a waste of skin and couldn’t possibly be good at what I do because I have a set of fucking tits! Christ!”
His face hardened down to a furious mask emanating hatred like heat waves from pavement under a July sun. “Don’t take that tone with me, young lady.”
I shook my head and pressed my palms down on the table. “Explain something to me, Dad. If you wanted a son so badly, why did you sign the papers for me if you were going to resent me my entire fucking life?” A mutinous tear dripped from my eye before I could catch it.
His scowl remained, but he dropped his stare and inspected his plate.
My mouth fell open for a moment when it hit me. “That’s not it is it? You don’t hate me because I’m a girl, you hate me because I’m not your blood, not your child, and you can’t stand to see some other man’s kid be good at anything.” My head shook in an effort to chase away what I knew to be true, deep down where truth lived. “God, all this time I thought I could learn about hockey and football, learn how to throw like a guy, show you I could succeed on my own as well as any son could. Somehow I thought maybe I could win you over. But you’ll never love me, will you? No matter what I do or say.” More tears dropped onto Mom’s Sunday dinner. Years of pent-up anger bubbled up my throat and wobbled my voice. “You bastard!”
Before Mom could stop me, I ran from the table, snatched my coat, and sprinted into the cool May evening. My own dad couldn’t stand me. All those years of hoping, a total waste of time. Even holding that small hope that maybe, just maybe, someday I could impress him, had kept me sane. In one moment, he’d taken away the last of my illusions. My dad hated me, and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it.
Numbness saved me from the ache in my soul.
Instead of taking the bus home to my apartment in the burbs of Scarborough, I walked for an hour, crying myself out on the way. Why did people snot so much when they cried? Like a freakin’ slimy waterfall. Gross. By the time I arrived at my apartment, the emptiness of my life crashed in on me, sent me to bed to stare at the ceiling for most of the night.
I no longer cared if I lost my job.
Nothing mattered.
Nothing mattered, because I didn’t matter.
* * * *
The instant I stumbled off the bus in front of work Monday morning, the iPhone spewed out a jingle that sounded like a bad impression of a Rolling Stones tune. The sound sent a jolt through the top of my head. The ache in my entire body from lack of sleep worsened when I realized who’d be on the other end of the phone call.
“Hello?” My voice croaked.
“My office,” Mr. Hathaway said. “Now.”
Phone still in hand, I trudged up the stairs to the building in a daze, staring but not really seeing. So he was going to fire me, after all. I steeled myself as I plodded across the busy lobby. No matter what happened, I’d take it with grace. At least he planned on doing it to my face and not the cowardly way I expected of him. For that I could find a shred of respect for the man.
By some miracle, the elevator doors didn’t open for anyone else once I started my ascent. At the top, I stepped out and willed my feet to move. Brent wasn’t at his desk—probably so the big boss could yell at me without anyone hearing—and the door to Mr. Hathaway’s little interrogation room stood open.
My stomach filled with stinging bees as I entered and marched through the interrogation room into his office. The door shut behind me. Silence pressed on my ears. I shoved shaking hands into the pockets of my black dress pants.
“Where’s my coffee?” Mr. Hathaway’s voice boomed from the darkness on the far side of the room.
My voice fell low, lifeless. “I forgot.”
He moved into a strip of light that made it beyond one of the blinds, but I didn’t look at him. His stare made my skin burn. “You have a photographic memory. That’s how you knew what the dog tag said.”
“Yeah.”
Silence stretched between us for a few seconds. “What, no witty retort?”
I pressed my palm to my forehead where a massive headache raged within. “Please. Just … are you going to fire me or not?”
“Your memory doesn’t explain how you knew the answers to the trivia. Tell me.”
I gave a weak shrug. “Just got lucky, I guess.”
He edged closer. “You’re different today. Why? Have my methods insulted your female sensibilities?”
My eyes grew wide. I cast a daggered stare at him, fury boiling up from my depths like an impending explosion. “Oh. My. God.” I threw up my hands to divert the burst of adrenaline to something other than smacking him in the face. “I hate to be the one to break this to you, Mr. Hathaway, but my world does not revolve around you, even though you apparently think it should.” I turned and grabbed the door handle, but his hand came from behind me and held the door shut.
My pulse thudded in my ears as his scent engulfed me. His arm rested against my shoulder, his warmth spreading along my skin. To my total dismay, his nearness weakened my knees.
“If it isn’t me, then tell me what’s wrong.”
“What’s wrong is that you’re an egotistical jerk who doesn’t know when to mind your own damn business.” A tear stung my eye and escaped before I could blink it away. I’d been able to file away the look on Dad’s face from the night before, but dealing with Mr. Hathaway and my own exhaustion slammed the pain of Dad’s rejection into my heart again.
Mr. Hathaway leaned his shoulder against the door beside me and stared at my profile. I watched him out of the corner of my eye. He reached for me but dropped his hand just short of touching my cheek. “You’re crying.”
I swiveled my head away. “Don’t be stupid, I’m not crying. Just get out of my way so I can leave.”
Silence stretched on. And on. An empty silence, yet full of s
ome emotion I couldn’t identify. I fiddled with the button on my shirtsleeve. Why wasn’t he saying anything? My gaze kept trying to search for him, but I forced it down.
“Work for me,” he said in such a soft tone I almost didn’t hear him.
My chest heaved and my whirling mind screeched to a halt. “What did you say?”
“You heard me.”
I shook my head and considered why he might have offered. “No way. Nuh-uh. Forget it. I don’t need your pity.”
“You beat me at my own game, Evangeline.” I heard the shrug in his voice. “You’ve proven you have the tenacity to stand up to me, which is a rare quality. You’ve earned the right.”
The way my name rolled off his tongue sent a shiver along my back. He actually called me by name? He must have been sick. I glanced at him. “So … you’re not offering because you feel guilty for being an ass, or because you think you made me cry?”
“Don’t push your luck, and guilt is a weak emotion I care not to practice.”
He strode toward the stairs. “Shall we get started?”
I gaped at him.
What the hell just happened?
Chapter 5
Mr. Hathaway mounted the first stair, stopped, and stared emerald eyes at me. That little curl around his ear drew my eye, begged to be wound around my finger, to brush my lips over it as I nuzzled him. “I don’t pay you to stand in my doorway, Ms. Ross.”
I flinched at the rumble of his deep voice. “Uh … yeah. Coming.”
My legs wobbled with exhaustion and the aftereffects of being so close to his body, but I managed to join him without falling and smashing my nose against his carpet. The coffee stain looked bad enough. I didn’t need to add my blood to it too.
I followed him up the stairs into darkness, holding the railing with one hand and patting the air in front of me with the other to make sure I didn’t run face-first into his butt. I wasn’t sure how I’d explain ramming his ass by accident, but I’d rather it be with my hand than my head.
Crossing Hathaway Page 4
