Hidden Scars (16 page)

       “I’m hoping it’s a simple misunderstanding.” Larry sat back and steepled his fingers. The giggle forming in her chest at the sight was all kinds of wrong, and broke through some of the nerves. “Jeremy Potter believes you are trying to undermine his position.”

       She was so going to the president after this. It had gone on long enough. Anger burned, replacing the nerves, and she took a discreet breath, ensuring her temper was under control. “Larry, I’m aware you have some sort of affection for him. As I’ve said on numerous occasions, Jeremy isn’t doing his share of the work. At first I was willing to pass it off as being overburdened. We all can be at times, and making the clients happy can be stressful. The longer it’s gone on, though, the more apparent it’s become to me that Jeremy isn’t interested in doing his job.

       “There are a number of client complaints, documented by emails, and plenty more in phone calls I’ve handled. Jeremy could be a good sales exec. At this juncture, though, he either has no desire to be or he’s handling too many clients. Am I undermining his position? No. Am I doing my job? Yes. Lately, that’s included making up for his lack. And I am past the point where I am going to allow this to go on any longer.” Standing, knowing Larry could fire her for such a brazen disregard for his position as department head, she headed for the door. “All of the documentation I’ve collected over the last year will be sent to the president. Whatever decision he makes regarding Jeremy, I’ll accept. However, I am unwilling to allow you to continue to make excuses for him.”

       She left before he could get another word out, retreating to her office and sliding to the floor as soon as the door closed behind her. She could damn well lose her job over that. She’d have grounds to sue for unlawful termination, certainly. But if she ended up out on her ass, she wouldn’t come back here. Not after this.

       She had to keep her job until she found something new. Which meant she had to watch out for sharp objects aimed at her back.

       Time to put her money where her mouth was. Those complaints were going to the president.

       Anticipation tore through her as she watched Taylor’s car pull into the driveway. She was having her first grown up sleepover tonight with a man she liked enormously. It was the best start to the weekend she’d had in years, and he hadn’t even made it to the front porch yet.

       Eager to begin, she yanked open the door before he could knock, tugging his duffle bag free of his hold and tossing it aside. She cut off his questions by hopping up and wrapping her legs around his waist, and let her mouth do the rest.

       
Smart man
. He caught on real quick, ravaging her mouth with a scorching kiss that had her scrabbling at his shirt. Clothing flew, punctuated by hisses and groans as they fought to bring the other more pleasure. Finally,
finally
, they were naked and he had her braced against the door when he hesitated.

       She cradled his face and nipped into his lip. “We had this discussion last night, Taylor. Take me. Now. And if you stop, it
will
hurt.”

       Afterward, she thought she’d have to give him orders more often. He hadn’t stopped until they were a sticky, sweaty pile on the floor. She tried to lift her head from his chest and failed. She did manage to reach up and pat him on the head. “Good boy,” she gasped.

       “I’m going to be insulted by that when I can breathe again,” he mumbled, his chest still heaving under her cheek.

       She grinned. God, she felt good, and the knowledge it was Taylor who’d made her feel that way made her heart skip a couple beats. Rolling off him, she staggered to her feet and down the hall, stopping at the linen closet to pull out a towel for him to use.

       Her moan of satisfaction as she ducked under the spray of hot water became drawn out as Taylor climbed in behind her, slicking his hands along her shoulders. “You’re wound up tight.” He began to knead, punching his thumb into a particularly stubborn spot.

       “I think I deserve a back rub later. Right now,” she inched away, “I need to eat.” She grabbed her loofah and set about scrubbing herself down.

       Clean, dry, and dressed in a pair of yoga pants and a sweatshirt, she was toweling off the worst of the wet from her hair when the doorbell rang. No one ever used the doorbell.

       Then she remembered the email from her father. “Shit!” She raced out of the room and down the hall to the door, scrabbling for their discarded clothing and tossing it in the hall closet. Tucking her wet hair behind her ears, she sucked in a breath, pasted on a smile, and opened the door.

       Her mother rushed forward and caught her in a fierce hug. “Hi, Mom,” she rasped out.

       Nina Andrews released her long enough to grasp her by the shoulders and take a thorough inventory before crushing her in another hug. “Baby, are you sure you’re okay?”

       Sara patted her mother’s back awkwardly. “I’m okay.” She wiggled out of the embrace and threw her arms around her dad. “You are so gonna get it,” she murmured into his ear.

       “Your mother isn’t the only one who was worried,” he whispered back.

       “Whatever.” She eased away. “Have you eaten dinner yet? Are you hungry? I haven’t started cooking—” Her father was staring over her shoulder. She followed his gaze to where Taylor stood at the entrance to the kitchen, dressed in sweats and a ragged t-shirt. Oops. “Um.” She walked up to him and placed a hand on his chest. To her relief, his hand came up to cover hers, swallowing it. He drew it down and around his waist, and she tucked herself under his arm. “Mom, Dad, this is Taylor. Taylor, these are my parents, Nina and Steve.”

       Taylor shook her father’s outstretched hand, then her mother’s, his chest rumbling with his greetings. It gave her cheeks time to fade to normal after the flaming red at having been caught in a decidedly embarrassing situation.

       No woman, no matter how old, wants her parents to know exactly when she’s been having sex.

       It took another ten minutes and half a glass of wine, but she managed to get her parents seated on the couch. She retreated to the kitchen and pulled open cupboards, staring desolately at the contents. There wasn’t a ton of food in the house. She’d have to get creative. Pulling out the last of her spaghetti, she turned the box over in her hands.

       “Need help?” Taylor held up her a glass of wine.

       “Got any ideas for what I should make for dinner?” She dropped the package of spaghetti on the counter. “C’mere.” The wine glass went on the counter and she slid her arms around his waist. The slow, steady thump of his heart gave her something to concentrate on while her brain stopped screaming
my parents almost walked in on me oh God oh God
. “Sorry.” She kept her voice low and hoped he could hear her. She didn’t want her parents listening in. “I got an email from my dad this morning and then forgot all about it.”

       “Don’t worry about it.”

       “Right,” she said wryly. Don’t worry about her parents interrogating Taylor over dinner. Or sticking around long after and making him leave. Since she’d asked him to stay, she was looking forward to having him in her bed. She tipped her head back. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

       He wound a lock of hair around his finger, let it unwind, waiting for her to continue. She chewed on the inside of her cheek. She didn’t want to go into the details now, because it deserved a serious discussion. “My ex was paroled a couple of days ago. I’ll explain everything after my parents leave, but that’s why they’re here. They’re worried about me.”

       His hand stilled. “And I don’t get to worry about you?”

       Something inside her broke open at his question. “Do you want to?” she whispered, scarcely daring to breathe. She didn’t want him to worry, but worrying meant he
cared
. Maybe a lot.

       He dipped his head and kissed her softly. “I already do.”

       She wanted to bottle the warm feeling threatening to explode in her chest. She knew his answer could be taken a lot of ways, so she set it aside to examine later. “We should get started on dinner.”

       Between the two of them, they uncovered a few cans of tuna, a large can of tomatoes, an unopened jar of capers, and a small onion. Unscrewing the lid on the capers, she fished one out and popped it in her mouth. The salty, bitter flavor might be okay with the tuna.

       They fell into a rhythm, much like the one they’d developed at work on their first client presentation, giving her a chance to put her thoughts in order. Her parents, Mom especially, would be pleased she was dating again, and in a somewhat serious capacity. She just didn’t want them overreacting to something so new and uncertain.

       Her mother commented on the silence as they sat down at the dining table. “You were both like mice in the kitchen. I wasn’t sure you hadn’t slipped out on us.”

       Sara poked at her spaghetti. “Taylor’s pretty quiet. He’ll say something if he has something to say. Small talk isn’t really his thing.” She gave him a crooked smile.

       “I don’t know how you could handle that, Sara dear. You’ve always been so talkative.”

       
Not since Sam
. “I like it,” she said softly. She caught her father’s fleeting grin, the gesture washing over her. “Keeps the stress level down.” She twirled pasta around her fork. “I’m glad you guys are here, but next time? A little more notice? Please?”

       Mom wiped her mouth with her napkin. “Well it’s not every day your former boyfriend is paroled. You were so distraught by the end of the trial. Waiting wasn’t an option. I had to make sure you were okay.”

       Well, she wasn’t distraught anymore. Years of therapy and self-defense courses had seen to that. “I’m okay. Really. He has to comply with the terms of his parole, which includes checking in with his parole officer on a regular basis and no contact with me or either of you. Everything will be fine. Krista’s coming to visit in a few weeks,” she said, desperate to change the subject.

       “Be sure to say hello to her for us.” Bless him, her dad was trying to help her.

       “I will. It’s been a while, and she hasn’t been here since I bought the house. She told me to wait to buy more furniture. I went ahead and bought paint.” She was babbling, she knew it, but as long as she was talking about Krista, they weren’t talking about Sam, and that was fine with her.

       Her mother was off and running on decorating ideas, and Sara alternated between polite nodding and wrinkling her nose. Their tastes often clashed, and when she began hinting she’d like to take Sara antiquing tomorrow, Sara started sending pleading looks at her father and Taylor. One of them had to get her out of this.

       “Why don’t you meet us for brunch tomorrow?” Taylor gestured across the table at her. “Sara’s been wanting to hit the market for a few weeks.”

       She grasped the lifeline with both hands. “Yeah, Mom, I need art. Stuff to dust.”

       Her mother latched on to the new idea and started talking about themes for each room, and Sara toyed with the rest of her pasta, wishing for dinner to end so she could get on with the rest of her evening.

       Dad helped her clear the table and clean up the kitchen. “Where are you staying? Oh, and how long will you be here?” She took the plates he handed her and loaded them into the dishwasher.

       “The Bria up near Pioneer Place. We’re only here through Sunday afternoon. Our flight home leaves at four.” Her dad wiped his hands off with the dish towel hanging from her oven handle. “Taylor seems like a nice guy,” he said casually. “And astute. Picked up on your ‘rescue me’ look.”

       She laughed. “He is. Sometimes he uses that to an unfair advantage. He’s become my French fry pusher.”

       His expression softened. “I hope he makes you happy, munchkin.” He hung the towel on the handle. “I’d better round up your mother and get her out of here before she’s got us camping out on your floor.”

* * *

       Taylor waited as Sara ushered her parents out the door, anger a slow burn in his gut. He wanted the hunt down her bastard of an ex and rip him apart.

       She wandered over to him, uncertainty wafting off her. “I’m going to have another glass of wine. You want?”

       He nodded, and she disappeared into the kitchen. The couch cushion sank under his ass as he sat on the end, sprawling out in the way he had the last time he was here, watching people running around in dirty pre-Victorian London on her TV screen while she’d curled up against him. He wanted to hold her like that again. Even if it meant watching more costume drama crap.

       She came back in and handed him his wine glass, the dark red liquid capturing the lamplight. The cushion shifted as she sat beside him, knees on his lap and head on his shoulder. Her knuckles were white as she clutched the stem of her wine glass.

       “You said he didn’t hit you.”

       Her sigh was quiet. “And he didn’t. When I told you he never raised a hand to me, that was the truth.” He waited while she sipped her wine, spinning the bowl around in her small hands. “About two months after I’d moved to Sacramento, Sam broke into my apartment. I’d ended it with him before I moved, and he hadn’t been happy about it. I stayed with a friend of a friend of a friend, the whole six degrees of separation thing so he couldn’t find me, until I got a job and was able to move. I don’t know how he found me. He held me at knifepoint for about three hours. Krista called the cops when I didn’t show to meet her for lunch and didn’t answer my phone. That girl saved my life. If I hadn’t already gone to the police about possibly filing a restraining order, they might have taken even longer to respond.

       “He was sentenced to fifteen years for assault with a deadly weapon. He was released on parole a few days ago. Seems he’s gotten time off for good behavior. I found out the first night you came over,” she whispered. “I’m safer here than I was in Sacramento. He can’t get to me without violating parole.”