The Broken One (The One Series Book 1) Page 8

  “I just need to be able to upgrade my plane ticket to first or business class, which I’m happy to cover myself.”

  He arches an eyebrow at me.

  “I also need an aisle seat. What time is everyone else flying in?”

  “Wednesday evening, why?” he asks.

  “I’d like to fly in Wednesday morning, please.”

  “Planning to enjoy the city a little before we get to work?”

  “Maybe I’ll catch a show,” I mock. “I’ve heard O is brilliant.”

  There is a gentle rap on the door, and I’m grateful for the interruption. “It’s open,” I say, looking over to see Tyler step in.

  He doesn’t appear to have seen Booker on the couch in the corner. “Hey Cas, I was thinking about going to this cool sushi place for lunch and was wondering if you’d like to come?”

  “I’m actually having lunch with Ceil. Thanks for asking though,” I reply, wondering when and why he decided to start calling me Cas.

  “Oh, okay. No problem. Maybe another time,” he says hurriedly.

  “Yeah, sure,” I reply without thinking, and the way his face lights up tells me I’ve made a terrible mistake. I hope with every part of me that he doesn’t ask the question that I can already feel him creating in his mind.

  “Or we could grab dinner sometime. Maybe tonight?”

  You have got to be kidding me.

  “I’m really flattered, Tyler, but I’m not interested in a relationship outside of work,” I say.

  When I see his face fall, that familiar voice in the back of my head says Let him down gently. I only listen to it because Tyler isn’t looking at me differently because of this morning, he isn’t treating me differently, and I don’t want him to start now. I add, “It isn’t personal, really. You’re a nice guy, but I’ve seen some pretty spectacular fails when it comes to office relationships. Remind me to tell you what happened at my last job when we grab lunch.”

  “Okay, I understand,” he says, but his cheeks flush when he turns to leave and spots Booker.

  “Tyler,” Booker acknowledges with a nod.

  “I didn’t realize you were there,” Tyler says, shooting me an accusing look.

  “Booker has to make my travel arrangements, since I don’t have a company credit card,” I explain when Booker doesn’t say anything.

  Tyler perks up a little and closes the door on his way out.

  “Thanks for nothing, Booker.”

  “I’ve seen that coming since the first day. I’m pretty sure he’s planned on making his move after the last few meetings, but he kept losing his nerve” he says with a strange smile.

  His lips are so full, and the way they stretch across his face has a magnetic effect. I can feel the room pulling to him. I feel the ghost of them on my fingertips.

  “You could have given me a heads up. I wouldn’t have answered the lunch question that way if I knew where it was headed.”

  “So why did you imply you’d go out with him if you weren’t coworkers?”

  “To soften the blow. I have to work with him for a few more weeks, and I want it to be pleasant. Is there anything else you need from me?” I ask him.

  “A few more weeks? This project is scheduled for over a month longer than that, and KSC has a secondary contract they’re looking at following this one up with.” He sounds concerned and makes no indication that he’ll be leaving my office anytime soon.

  “Okay, five-ish more weeks, whatever,” I say with a sigh, and I lean back in my chair to stare at the ceiling.

  “Why aren’t you interested in Tyler? He’s attractive, close to your age, and a genuinely nice guy,” he says thoughtfully.

  “Sounds like he’s more your type than mine,” I reply absentmindedly while counting ceiling tiles. Maybe Booker and I can be friends. Maybe if I act normal, he’ll stop looking at me like a bird with a broken wing.

  “You’re funny. Once again you don’t answer questions,” he observes, and the tone in his voice causes me to sit up and watch him. He’s running his large hands over that face, and I notice for the first time that a small shadow of a beard has formed.

  Deciding to make a joke of the situation and defuse some of his tension, I quip, “Tyler seems like the type of guy who plans to take his wife’s last name.”

  The sound of Booker’s laughter cuts through my frustration with him. His amusement increases my own, and I find myself laughing as well, even though people don’t typically seem to like it when I laugh at my own jokes.

  “And I thought you were a feminist,” Booker says through his laughter.

  “I’m a humanist. People should keep their own names, and everyone should be treated fairly with respect and dignity.”

  “And when said people have children, what last name should the child have?”

  “I have no idea, that isn’t the point.”

  “What is the point?”

  “The only interest I’ve ever had in a Beta is in a bar, when they’re pretending to be an Alpha, and I’m pretending to believe them so that I can get laid,” I tell him bluntly.

  Bookers laughter grows with this, and then stops abruptly.

  “Wait, are you saying I’m a Beta?”

  “Not everything is about you, Book.”

  My normal response to the skepticism on his face would be to enjoy his discomfort and leave him wondering, but for reasons I can’t explain, I find myself easing it instead.

  “I sincerely doubt anyone has ever thought that of you.” My admission seems to please him, and he relaxes back into the couch, chuckling softly.

  That fucking couch is going to be the end of me.

  “I have work to do, so if you don’t mind ...” I say, sliding forward to wake my computer. When he doesn’t move, I add, “I’m sure you have something important you need to be doing as well.”

  I put a little more force into my typing than is necessary and beg my peripheral vision to fail as he stands to walk out.

  Chapter 14

  It’s been an uneventful Thursday, and I’m glad it’s almost over and that I’ll see Ceil soon. She wasn’t in the office today, but she texted me to see if we could hang out tonight. I offered to order takeout for a movie night at my place. I’ll admit I’m a little surprised that it didn’t occur to me to offer to take that stuff to her place, where I could bolt whenever I want. But I never seem to want to bolt when Ceil and I are together. Our time just naturally comes to an end in a mutually desirable way.

  I work with my door closed all day. Booker knocks on my door once, but I don’t answer, and he doesn’t let himself in this time. I stay at the office a little late in the hopes that everyone else will have already left for the day by the time I walk out. And by “everyone else” I mean Booker. I cannot afford to be distracted by him anymore.

  I’m walking out my office door when the phone on my desk starts to ring. I double check my watch. It’s 5:30 p.m. The only people who ever call me on my office line are my team and Ceil.

  “Hello?”

  “Hello, Ms. Smith?” a female voice asks.

  “Yes, this is Caspian, how can I help you?”

  “This is Trish, from KSC Human Resources. Do you have a moment to talk?” she asks politely.

  Nothing good ever starts with those words. “Sure, what’s going on?”

  “Well, we’ve been made aware of an incident that happened yesterday involving you. Do you know what I’m talking about?”

  I’m a little confused and replay the last 24 hours to remember anything I could have said or done that was inappropriate. I’m coming up blank, so I say, “I’m really not sure what you could be referring to. Have I offended someone?”

  “No, I’m sorry. I should have been more specific. This incident involved you and Mr. Keisler and was reported by some other employees,” Trish says patiently.

  This isn’t happening.

  “What would you like to know?” I ask.

  “We just need you to tell us what happened in th
e 9 a.m. meeting,” she tells me.

  “Mr. Sax introduced himself with a handshake, and Mr. Keisler hugged me. I told him I’m a handshake person, and that’s all there was to it.”

  “Did this make you uncomfortable?” Trish asks. I hear typing in the background.

  My response is clipped. “That’s why I told him I prefer handshakes.”

  “Okay. Did he touch you inappropriately?” Trish asks with a tone I do not care for.

  “He’s a short man. I’m a tall woman. He wrapped his arms around my waist, and his face was in my chest,” I tell her curtly. This is fucking humiliating. “I put my hands on his shoulders and pushed away from him. I told him I prefer handshakes, and he did not touch me again, other than to shake my hand when he left the meeting.” For a moment after I finish my explanation, the only sound on her end is typing.

  “Thank you for telling me. Now I’ll just need you to write up a statement saying exactly what you just told me, and bring a signed copy to my office,” she tells me.

  “I’m not doing that,” I say simply.

  Fucking A. This is unbelievable.

  “But you have to,” Trish says more forcefully.

  “Look, he did something that made me uncomfortable. I corrected it, and nothing else happened. There isn’t anything more to do,” I tell her.

  “I need you to write a letter and sign it for HR,” Trish tells me again.

  “Look, Trish? I’m not ending my career over this bullshit, and I’m feeling far more harassed by you, right now, than I did in the meeting yesterday. If there were other people who were offended yesterday, take their reports. I won’t dispute them. But I’m not doing it.” I hang up the phone and hurry out the office door before the phone can ring again.

  What Mr. Keisler did wasn’t right, but he didn’t persist. I shouldn’t have to file a statement on an incident I didn’t report. If it were more than what it was, maybe I’d have an obligation to the future women of this company to report it, but if I report now, aren’t I just a woman putting a dark mark on a man’s career without cause while simultaneously ending my own? Maybe I’m looking at this the wrong way, but right now I just need to save my own skin. Unlike their male counterparts, women in corporate America do not recover from sexual harassment complaints.

  I’m sitting on my couch at home still lost in these thoughts when Ceil surprises me by walking through my front door.

  “I knocked, but you didn’t hear me, so I tested the handle,” she tells me.

  “Shit! I’m sorry, Ceil. I zoned out. I didn’t even order dinner!” How long was I just sitting there? “What are you in the mood for?” I ask her, forcing some cheer into my voice.

  “I want to eat my feelings,” Ceil tells me, flopping into the rose papasan that I just unboxed this morning.

  “Sounds like a job for pasta and ice cream. I can make chicken alfredo and shakes? Do you want dessert now or later?”

  “Yes, that’s good. Dessert now. Do you have malt mix?”

  “Hell yeah I do. And Hershey’s syrup,” I tell her, making my way to the kitchen island. “Now spill. What’s going on with you?”

  “I ended things with Travis,” she sighs. “I’m not even that sad it didn’t work out with him, specifically, it’s more that I’m tired of dating, you know?”

  “Then stop. Come out with me tomorrow night and have a good time. No expectations, just let your freak flag fly and don’t put any pressure on yourself.”

  “I’m not opposed to that, but it feels like it’s time to settle down a little, you know?”

  “I guess I just don’t feel that way,” I tell her, and as soon as the words are out, they feel wrong. It wasn’t a lie a moment ago, but now I’m not sure. That’s the thing about saying things out loud: It gives words a level of clarity they don’t necessarily have while they’re just floating around in your brain. Maybe that’s why I’ve been feeling so strange about Josh getting married. His life is progressing like a normal person’s, and I’m in some strange limbo. I can’t keep people, but what I’m doing isn’t working either.

  I push these thoughts aside and go on. “Listen, just come out with me tomorrow night. Clear your head, let loose, and then next week it’ll feel different.”

  “I’m down for trying,” she tells me with a wink.

  I hand Ceil her malt and get started on the chicken alfredo. It’s not often I get to cook for other people, so I hope I’m up to the task.

  Ceil cuts the onions, mushrooms, and herbs while I start on the sauce. I’m outwardly jealous of her knife skills, and I wonder if she might give me lessons at some point. When I chop vegetables, or anything for that matter, I do it slowly and deliberately. I do this for two reasons. First, the scar on my left thumb taught me that it’s very important to be aware of the difference between food and flesh. Second, I know that uniformed cutting is important. I learned this from an episode of one of those cooking shows where an angry chef yelled at a contestant for cutting his vegetables different sizes. Apparently, vegetables of different sizes cook differently, have a different texture, and turn people into donkeys.

  Ceil operates the knife with expert speed and precision. When she steps away, everything is cut perfectly, and she has all of her fingers. I ask her where she learned to do that.

  “My mom is Korean and loves to cook. She taught me and my sisters while we were growing up. I’ve been holding a knife as long as I’ve been holding a fork,” she tells me, beaming with pride.

  “Well you’re going to have to teach me some tricks next time.”

  “You got it,” Ceil agrees.

  “Do you speak Korean?” I ask her.

  “Not really. We did a little as kids, but mostly English. My dad was American, in the military. He met my mom while he was overseas.”

  “I wish I dedicated more time to learning a second language when I was younger,” I tell her regretfully.

  “There’s still time.”

  “Have you ever been to Korea?”

  “Not yet, but I will someday.” There’s an air of longing in her voice.

  “Out of the country in general?” I ask.

  “Just Mexico and Canada. For the beaches and the men, respectively,” she reveals with a wiggle of her brows.

  “Canadian men do have a rugged masculinity about them,” I observe.

  “What is it about those dirty little germ catchers on their face that make me want to lose my pants?” Ceil asks.

  “I’ve often wondered the same. Beards are sexy until you read an article detailing the contents,” I say with a little shudder.

  “I guess the benefits outweigh the costs when you live in a frozen tundra half the year,” she observes. “Have you been out of the country?”

  “Unfortunately, I have not,” I answer, adding, “I do most things alone, and I’ve been a little unsure about international travel.”

  “You’re strong, you could easily do it on your own. No need to worry as long as you’re careful. I go to Mexico alone half of the time.”

  “So, let’s hear some of your battle stories. There must be some juicy ones involving Canadian men, eh?”

  Ceil laughs at my attempt at a Canadian accent and proceeds to tell me some of her funny dating stories as we finish making dinner and sip our malts. Turns out Ceil doesn’t hook up the way I do. The way Alexis does. Ceil dates properly. She puts herself out there and takes chances. She has loved and been loved and lost and is brave enough to keep trying.

  When she tells me about a particularly painful breakup, I ask, “How do you deal with that?”

  “With what?”

  “The pain. Loving someone and then getting your heart broken. Why do it again?”

  “I don’t know. I think each time, you learn a little more about yourself. What you want, what you’re good at, where you need to improve, that kind of stuff. I figure dating all of these shitbags has to be working out some of the shitbaginess inside myself. When I meet my person, I’ll be a better version o
f myself, and I’ll be able to appreciate them more. So the process might hurt sometimes, but if it were easy to find the good love, people would throw it away like they do bottles of water, because another one would always be around the corner.” I’m still thinking about that when she turns to me and asks, “Have you ever been in love?”

  “Only with the amazing Kathryn Hahn,” I quip, flipping on Stepbrothers.

  “This is such a great movie!” she squeals, ignoring my blatant avoidance of her question and instead making her way back to the papasan. We spend the rest of the evening laughing and requoting our favorite lines.

  I don’t bring up the stuff with Keisler and HR. That shit has messed with two workdays already, I’ll be damned if I’ll let it mess with girls’ night, too.

  Chapter 15

  Friday evening arrives, and Ceil is getting ready with me at my house before we go out. We do each other’s makeup, and I put a set of magnetic lashes on her that make her eyes pop. Ceil has amazing almond eyes, so she doesn’t really need the lashes. For her, they’re just icing on a cake.

  “Damn! These things are awesome!” Her voice is enthusiastic, and she is pulling the lashes on and off with ease like a child playing with a new toy.

  “Isn’t it cool that they basically position themselves?” I remark.

  “Definitely. So much easier than that glue shit. I could do this all night.”

  “Please don’t, you look like a weirdo,” I tell her, and we laugh. “You can keep those. I don’t really wear them anymore, and if I decide to, I’ve got plenty.”

  “So, what’s the plan?” she asks.

  “To clear our heads.”

  “And who are you clearing from your head?” she asks slyly.

  “Work, obviously,” I wink.

  I’m relieved that Ceil picks a bar that does not belong to Booker. The bar she chooses has a low-key feel, and although a live band is playing, the volume isn’t set to a level that drowns out everything but my own pulse in my ears like it is at most places. There is a soft elegance in the atmosphere that makes it feel like a nice place to relax for an evening. I typically only tolerate the bar scene as a means to an end, but I could see myself coming back here for more wholesome reasons.