Julian's Pursuit (3 page)

Her mouth twitched, first in one corner, and then it curled into a grin made more attractive by the fact she tried to suppress it. “I’m pretty sure skinny malinky longlegs is
not
Gaelic.”

I shrugged. “It must be a Scottish saying, then.”

“Just curious.” She narrowed her eyes. “Have you read the book
Outlander
?”

“No, but my sister watched the TV series and all of a sudden she’s talking about clans, druids, Castle Leoch, Craigh na Dun, and she’s spewing Gaelic every chance she gets.”

She stifled a laugh. “I can relate.”

“Any other pet peeves you have?” I asked. “Related to work?”

“Hmm.” Her gaze became thoughtful. “I can’t stand it when Gary and Miles come into work wearing skintight spandex cycling shorts.” She shuddered. “Grown men at the office all trussed up in shiny Technicolor Lycra, looking like Hulk Hogan at the Ice Capades—no.” She shook her head. “Just—no. And you know what’s even worse? Those spandex onesies.”

“Oh, you mean the full-bodied unitards? The ones that can only be purchased from a dance supply shop, likely intended for women only but labeled unisex?”

“See!” Her face lit up. “You know what I’m talking about.”

“Oh, I do,” I said in all seriousness. “Because I happen to wear spandex from time to time.”

Her lips pursed for a moment, then bloomed into a full smile. “You
don’t.
”

“I do.” I tried for a haughtily arched brow, but it was hard to restrain the grin tugging at the corners of my mouth. “But I get mine from a bike store, not a dance supply shop.”

“Why?”

“Why not?” I countered. “And why do you have a problem with spandex?”

She coughed lightly. “Moose knuckles.”

My spoon stopped halfway to my mouth. “Excuse me?”

“Moose knuckles,” she repeated. “Women have camel toes, and men have… you know, moose knuckles.”

I laughed and shook my head, surprised to find she had such a wry sense of humor. By now, she’d relaxed somewhat and a welcoming smile touched her lips. “Hey,” I said. “Those spandex bodysuits actually help enhance my performance. Baggy shorts don’t come close to the performance of Lycra.”

“Oh.” She arched a delicate brow. “I didn’t realize you were in the Tour de France, trying to shave tenths of a second off your personal best.”

Touché.

“Fair point,” I conceded. “What else bothers you?”

After a moment’s hesitation, she said, “I don’t know about you, but I find it really annoying when people groom themselves at work. Curling their hair in the bathroom, cutting their nails at their desks. I mean, it’s a workplace, not a salon.”

“Oh, are you talking about Ben?” I asked, and she nodded.

“That clipping noise when he cuts his nails at his desk…” She visibly cringed.

“Sounds like Japanese water torture?” I offered.

“Yes,” she said forcefully. “Yes.”

“I hate that,” I told her.

“Me, too.”

For a brief moment, our eyes met in perfect understanding.

“So tell me,” I said lightly. “What do you hate the most?”

“What do I hate the most?” she repeated. A pause, then, “I hate getting too close to people. When I think they’ll always be there for me, they eventually leave.” Her voice was filled with its usual sass, but I heard the unsteadiness beneath it.

I stared at her, and she bit down on her lower lip.

I think she was just as shocked as I was at what she’d just said.

“Sorry.” She offered me an unsteady smile. “I have no idea where that came from. And the truth is, I don’t like hateful people.” Her lips twisted in bitter amusement. “You must think I’m such a hateful person.”

“No.” I held her gaze steadily. “I don’t think that at all. They say hate is a strong word. But so is love. And people throw that around like it’s nothing.”

She stared at me a moment, then slanted her gaze away.

“And what about your likes? Tell me some of the things you like in a person. Qualities you look for in a man.”

She licked the back of her spoon. “I’m not looking for a man. Let’s start there.”

“Let’s say you were.” I stopped and swallowed hard, feeling my cock stir as she worked her tongue around the spoon, savoring every last morsel.

She gave me a look that said,
I see where this is going.
“Like in a partner?” she asked. “Someone I’m dating?”

“Yeah.” I gave a careless shrug. “Something like that, I suppose.”

“Mm,” she mused aloud. “I like a man who looks like a bad boy but knows how to treat a woman good. A man who will ruin my lipstick, not my mascara. A man who’s loyal and supportive… who challenges me and can get things done.”

Clearing my throat loudly, I said self-effacingly, “Stop describing me.”

She bit back a laugh and a drop of yogurt trickled down the edge of her lips.

Without planning or thought, I leaned forward to brush it away with my thumb.

Sadie froze, and I faltered at the end, realizing the intimacy of my gesture.

Our gazes locked, and the moment stretched.

The silence lengthened, neither of us sure of what to say.

Some kind of emotion flickered in her eyes, but the moment quickly passed.

Abruptly, her guard was up again and her face was a carefully shuttered mask.

But I held her gaze, hoping for more.

There was nothing.

I checked my watch. “We should probably head back to the office now.”

“Yes,” she said tightly. “We should.”

Chapter Three

Evan wrapped his arms around my neck and I let myself cling to him, inhaling the scent of his hair. “Have a good day at school, E.”

“I’ll try, Mom.”

I drew back and held him at arm’s length. “Have those boys been giving you a hard time?”

“No.” He shook his head. “Not anymore.”

“Good.” I sighed inwardly with relief and pressed a kiss to his forehead before he sprinted down the driveway and climbed into the school bus.

It was a good thing the bullying had stopped. If it hadn’t, I’d have to go full-on Lannister on those tyrants.

No one messes with my child.

As I headed back into the house, I made a mental note to call St. Margaret’s Children’s Hospital to schedule Evan’s six-month cardiology checkup.

A hard knot formed in my stomach. Just thinking about his upcoming scan set my nerves on edge.

Everything today seemed to frazzle my nerves. As I crossed the living room, a huge pile of laundry sat on the couch, taunting me. I sighed, convinced the pile multiplied and grew all on its own.

In the kitchen, I was met with a stack of breakfast dishes in the sink. As I began loading the plates into the dishwasher, my throat closed up when I thought of the ever-growing list of things that needed my attention.

I had a full plate at home and a plateful at work. It was that time of year when I had to prepare annual marketing plans for my high-profile clients, on top of the individual campaign plans for the regional ones. And I had to ensure that all my campaigns were going smoothly. As account exec, I was partially responsible for a campaign’s success and failure. People had lost their jobs over a failed ad campaign. When clients pulled their ad dollars because they weren’t happy with the results, the proverbial heads rolled.

I couldn’t afford to lose my job. Not now. Not ever. There was too much on the line, too many medical bills, too many people counting on me.

I loved my job, and I loved Evan with all my heart, but at times, the weight of the constant responsibility got to me.

Giving all my energy to Evan and my career, managing our household, being a parent to my Mom, scheduling and making every doctor appointment, showing up at all the school functions, helping out with homework, trying to meet my son’s needs and plan for the future, being the nurse, the provider, the therapist, the tutor, the cheerleader, the chauffeur, the cook, the laundress, the maid, having to be
on
twenty-four-seven and not having any support… It felt as if I could fall apart in a single instant, carrying the weight of it all.

Standing by the kitchen sink, alone with my thoughts, I let myself crumble.

This was the place no one saw; that place of desperation I usually kept buried in my heart, bound with chains, locked tightly away.

How much more of this can I take?

Tears stung my eyes and crowded their way up my throat as the weight of my responsibilities felt heavy enough to crush me.

How many more mornings like these will I have?

In desperate moments like these, I felt like giving up. But before I reached that dark place, some sense of self-preservation kicked in.

Don’t give up
,
I told myself in an authoritative voice
.
Evan needs you
.

Already, I felt guilty that Evan didn’t have a father in his life.

How could I give him less of a mother simply because I was overwhelmed at times?

That was my ultimate choice. To keep on going because I could, because I had to, because I wanted my son to believe that life’s hardships could be lived through and triumphed over.

Taking a deep breath, I wiped roughly at my eyes with the back of my hand, refusing to give in to the emotions that threatened to overpower me.

Then I slammed the dishwasher shut with more force than necessary.

Pull yourself together,
I ordered.
And put on your poker face.

Giving my nose a vicious swipe with a Kleenex, I grabbed my bag and keys off the kitchen counter and pulled in another steadying breath.

Somehow, I managed to gather myself before I got into my car and drove off to work.

“Shh,” Riley hissed. “The Black Widow just walked in.”

“What did
she
have for breakfast?” Tim smirked. “Bitch flakes?”

I considered shooting back a scathing retort, but it took more energy than I wished to expand on his behalf.

Like so many clichés in the business, Tim was a spectacular moron.

He wasn’t just asshole-ish; he was a straight-up asshole, and his inappropriateness had no boundaries.

While he appeared to be in love with his wife, he slept around with many women in the office.

Office wives, these women were called. And they were usually young.

The older Tim got and the farther his hairline receded, the younger the women he bedded. And Riley Jones was young.

A young, giggling, and flirtatious junior account exec.

I hoped, for her sake, she’d stay away from Tim. He was the sort of man who’d call a woman a bitch and a whore for rejecting him and at the same time label her a slut for sleeping with him.

And I’d warned Riley about Tim on more than one occasion, but she remained indifferent to my pleas.

Meanwhile, Tim was still taking digs at me, just the same bullshit I’d heard a hundred times before.

Unfettered, I put on my Resting Bitch Face and stalked into my office.

Closing the door behind me, I set my steaming hot coffee on my desk and logged in to my computer.

Even with the door closed I could see Tim leaning in close to Riley, leering at her like a douche-nozzling sea donkey.
Creep.

I sighed. Some days I wished I couldn’t see everything that went on in this office.

Almost six years ago, the founding partners of this firm, Sam Hall and Less Heinrich, decided to eliminate all the internal walls and partitions in order to create a more open and less hierarchical workspace.

They called it the Google approach. It was a shift from thinking of the office as being a “me space” to a “we space” in hopes of fostering a sort of communal feeling.

And so the architect commissioned by Hall and Heinrich embraced transparency, eliminating cubicles and replacing walls with glass partitions to make everything at the office visible at a glance. Even my own personal office had glass walls, and I had a clear line of sight of the entire floor, all the way to the elevator.

But as much as I detested the “we space” approach, I understood the need for it.

The clusters of tables and quads of desks in the lofty, high-beamed space created a collaborative setting that was conducive to the heart and soul of this agency—the creative department, especially since they constantly relied on each other to bounce off ideas.

The sound of a loud ping pulled me from my thoughts, and my pulse quickened as the doors slid open and Julian stepped out of the elevator.

With a cool and silent swagger, he crossed the floor, picking his way through the maze of tables to get to his desk. Since he was a creative director, he could’ve had his very own glass office, but he chose to forgo it to sit with his team.

“I need to be where the crazy happens,” he’d said on his first day at the firm. “My team can’t be innovative in a vacuum, and neither can I.”

I admired him for that. He wasn’t just some glorified director. He was an actual leader. And that made him even more attractive to me.

Then I shook my head as if I could somehow shake away that feeling and turned my thoughts back to work.