“Okay, sassy pants.” Laughing, he slid to one side, just enough for her to reach the taps.
She assessed the situation, not pleased with her choices. Stepping up to the sink would put her too close to him for comfort; she’d otherwise have to leave with unwashed hands.
“Get out of my space.” She stepped up to the sink as though he weren’t even in the room. He moved away at her approach, and she thought at first her confidence had driven him back — until he looped around and came up behind her, trapping her against the counter with a hand on either side of her.
“What’s your perfume? You smell good enough to eat,” he murmured, his mouth flirtatiously close to her ear, her neck.
Whoa! Flipping crap. How had she let herself get into a position like this? She could feel the heat of his body and smell the alcohol on his breath mixed with his body wash or cologne or whatever it was. A shiver rippled through her.
“Haven’t been able to take my eyes off you… sitting there, flirting with me over your book… and you’ve got such heavenly tits...” One of his hands left the counter and snaked around to caress Nell’s waist.
“Get your hands off me,” she snarled. When he didn’t comply immediately, she lost it. “That’s it. Fair warning was given. Flipping asshole.” With everything she had in her, all the power from every training session, every self-defense drill, she raised an arm, torqued herself around and nailed him with a hammerfist in the side of the neck. Pressure point. Brachial plexus origin. As his arms slackened, she turned, gripped his shoulder for leverage and slammed a knee into his groin. He dropped, groaning and cursing. “Don’t assume women are helpless. Some of us are black belts. Some of us will make you sorry you tried it.” Kicking away a pawing hand with one foot, she stalked out of the bathroom.
Do I say anything to Tim? Or do I just leave?
Technically, she knew she should probably say something. But explanations would be complicated. And a martial artist’s hands and feet can be considered weapons in a court of law.
The pool player could explain what had happened, if he wanted to — starting with why he’d been in the women’s bathroom.
She left.
Wednesday morning, the first day of Nell’s workweek, came all too soon.
Her usual round of squats and pushups and crunches jump-started her body and put her into a better frame of mind than she’d woken up with, but didn’t leave much time for anything except a quick shower and basic grooming. Not that anyone at the office would care if Nell Whelan did or did not wear eyeliner and mascara, as long as she followed the workplace dress code and looked like she was doing her job.
Pushing the vileness of business casual slacks and blouses into the back of her mind, she ate some cold leftover stir-fry for breakfast and made a protein shake to get herself through the rest of the morning.
I’ll have a cup of tea when I get to the office, she told herself. She kept a stash of good tea in the bottom drawer of her desk, a small luxury that made her office existence a little bit more bearable.
She didn’t get a seat on the bus, but that was normal, and at least her commute took only twenty minutes. The riders who got on early enough to have seats were coming in from the suburbs and had probably been on the bus for half an hour already. Tinny music from several sets of nearby earbuds buzzed softly around her, and she gazed out the bus window at the sunrise.
Work never changed. Nell was the first one to arrive, as usual, and she liked it that way. The elevators weren’t yet as crowded as they would be later in the morning, but two early birds waiting by the elevator bank were enough for Nell to take the stairs. Six flights were nothing; she usually did the stairs both ways at lunch anyway without breaking a sweat, but an extra set in the morning would be good for her. She reached the sixth floor, unlocked the glass front doors of the office, and moved through the space turning on lights.
The office had its usual early morning smell of cleaning solution and electronics. No one was ever around this early. Nell liked to get a start on her day before the rest of the managers and assistants and booking agents turned up to fill the office.
She turned on her computer, made her tea, tidied the photocopier room and kitchenette — even though that wasn’t technically her job. She couldn’t bear to have the office’s public and shared spaces in disarray, and Lila the receptionist never did it.
Basics attended to, she started on her email inbox.
I hate my job. I hate my job.
Nell was a supervisor for a vacation properties company. Wildforest Vacations Inc. owned assorted cottage resort parks — charming rustic cabins and cottages in picturesque rural areas, clustered around a restaurant and general store. Some were aimed at couples, some at families, some at singles and the party scene. Each property had a supervisor, and each supervisor was supposed to have an assistant in the office as well as an on-site manager at each property. But Nell’s previous assistant had quit without notice the month before, and Wildforest hadn’t yet hired her a new one. Two people’s jobs to get done in one person’s hours, on one salary. Not that Shannon had worked terribly hard. Lila had agreed to help Nell out until a new assistant could be found for her, but although the receptionist was friendly and had a great telephone voice, she wasn’t much for organization skills or neatness or
