He lifts an eyebrow at the challenge in my voice. “It does?”
I blush under his scrutiny. “Curt’s been behind you ever since you asked him for the job you have now. I bet if you really wanted a management job, he’d at least listen to your position.”
Locke nods in consideration, but my computer calendar sends me a meeting reminder before he can respond.
Crap.
I stand up and smooth my hand over my pencil skirt. “Discussion to be continued. I’ve gotta go.”
Locke keeps his eyes carefully trained on my face. “Good luck.”
I’ll need it.
Damien’s office sits on the second floor of the building, an area untouched by Curt’s open-space initiative. His door looks like every other door lining the long hallway, with blond wood and a small silver plaque bearing his name and the room number, but nerves gather in my stomach and my palms sweat as I knock on the door.
“Come in,” Damien calls from inside.
I smooth on a fake smile and push open the door.
Inside, Damien sits behind his desk, his handsome face turned toward me, impassive.
“Greer.”
Breathe.
I hadn’t fully prepared myself for seeing him, and my head fills with a complicated mess of emotions—discomfort and embarrassment and regret.
He still looks good. I know what he feels like under that button-down shirt. I know what he kisses like, alone at night.
I take a seat and try to remind myself that he’s just a blueberry muffin. Tasty and fun, but you can get the same thing on every corner. He might have seemed like a good idea at the time, but afterward, all I felt was empty and unsatisfied. And still hungry.
Damien speaks first. “I wanted to start by saying that whatever happened between us shouldn’t have an effect on our relationship going forward.”
“Uh-huh.”
He drones on for another minute, and I bring my gaze to the shelves behind his head so I look like I’m looking at him while I’m actually spying. Books on design principles and user interfaces line the simple, white shelves, and a spider plant in a cracked green pot sends out baby plants in a futile attempt at continued existence.
Go! Live!
“Can I have your assurance that we can keep this professional?” Damien asks.
“I’m sorry, what?” I’ve missed something important in his monologue. I bring my gaze to his blue eyes, challenging myself not to look away.
“Greer.” His tone is placating and exasperated, like he’s explaining something to a child. “No matter what feelings might still linger—”
“Excuse me?” The only feelings that linger are of my own stupidity.
“—I can’t have you distracting me from what needs to be accomplished here.”
Correction. There are no more lingering feelings of my own stupidity. Just a growing sense of anger and astonishment.
He thinks I still want him.
Good lord.
I should have known better than to underestimate the ego of a man whose face appears on a third of the busses in the Seattle public transit system.
“What are you trying to say?” I whisper.
He sighs. “There’s just a difference in what we’re doing here, Greer. A difference in scale. In impact. And I can’t have you undercut my impact by getting too emotional.”
Damien’s voice sounds exactly like the voice in my head that jeers, You’re not meant to be here, and I feel rooted to my chair, paralyzed.
I force myself out of my seat with trembling limbs, then drop my hands onto my hips, trying to make myself portray the kind of confidence I don’t feel. Damien’s eyes follow the curves highlighted by my skirt, and a frown tugs my lips.
I can’t keep the irritation out of my voice. “Let’s revisit this conversation when you’re ready to discuss the caliber of work I bring to this company instead of our past relationship.”
He pauses as if momentarily stunned.
Shit.
I’m the kind of emotional that’s exactly proving his point, and at the end of the day, he’s still the one writing my paychecks.
My face heats, but there’s no going back. “I’ll be more than happy to discuss the bot project and how it’s surpassing its objectives. If you have specific questions, feel free to reach out.”
He closes his mouth and nods. “Very good then.”
“Thank you.” I spin on my heel and stride out the door, and I don’t let my body shake with frustration until I’m already down the hall. The holiday season looms before me, filled with playacting happy in front of Damien. I don’t know how much I’m willing to take.
Molly waves a tortilla chip in my direction and smiles. “You should do it.”
“Do what?” I swallow a mouthful of my Nauti Gal cocktail too fast at that one.
Over her shoulder, the Octopus Bar bustles with its happy hour crowd, the not-quite-drunk patrons milling about the nautical decor while the pink lights of the bar cast a rosy glow on everyone’s faces. A strand of holiday string lights weaves between the bottles displayed on the back wall behind the bar, an extra nod to the festive season.
Molly and I have a standing Wednesday happy hour date at Octopus, where you can get fancy drinks at low prices along with killer nachos, but I’m too busy eying Molly’s satisfied smile to pay much attention to the food in front of me.
“You should let Locke be your date to your work parties.” She shoves the food in her face with a wink.
That’s what I get for mentioning his proposal to her after my debrief about Damien’s self-centered assumptions. I should have stopped after my first vodka, seltzer, and blackberry-syrup cocktail to keep from spilling all the details about Locke’s solution, but hey, it was a tough day.
I frown at Molly and set my glass on the bar. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“He’s offering you a chance to partner up and have some fun. Why not get a little enjoyment out of the situation?” She shrugs at me. “You’ve crushed on him since practically day one.”
My feelings for Locke are
