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Oh, God. And he was married! She had practically become the other woman. Granted, they were about to go through with a divorce but that was a shaky line to try to walk and she couldn't have lived with herself if she had become the cautionary tale her mother had always told her about.
Hannah stabbed the off button on her monitor forcibly. Men were disgusting. He looked at her like he was about to ravish her and he had a wife at home. That was probably who was calling him for chrissakes. She scoffed and grabbed her purse and James' clothes to drop at the cleaner in the morning.
The office was strange at night, all abandoned. She almost wished she could see Tad sitting there with his goofy smile that would lift her sour mood. Though this was definitely not something she was going to share with him. He would take it the wrong way. Especially after she admitted to being attracted to James.
He probably wouldn't say so, but he would definitely judge her for it. As much as he joked with her about the yum-factor of both the Michaels brothers, she very much doubted he would think of her the same way if she admitted to thinking one of them was hot and then go and almost make out with the other one.
Hannah went home, fed Ricky, and ate an entire container of vanilla ice cream. Somehow, by some cruel twist of fate, when she felt insecure... she ate. Non-stop. Until her jeans felt tight and she snapped herself out of it.
She went to bed early and somehow managed to sleep peacefully.
CHAPTER FIVE
The next day passed with painful professionalism. If she thought their previous interactions were chilly, after their moment in her office, it was downright glacial. Hannah felt on edge around him, conscious of exactly how close her body was to his at any given time. Her arm brushed his when he reached for his coffee as she grabbed the faxes. Her hip tapped his when he opened the door and she walked through.
Then the weeks stretched on, and as Tad had informed her when she had called one night crying that she couldn't take it anymore- that she had to quit... she fell into the swing of things.
The food in her refrigerator spoiled with how little she was home to eat anything out of it. Her answering machine filled with calls from back home, some worried about her not taking enough time for herself, some angry that their calls never got answered anymore. Her hours grew longer and longer, so full that she barely even had time to think about a life outside of the walls of EM Corporation. But it never occurred to her to worry about that. Or to be angry or resentful. She had a purpose again after so long of having nothing to do with her time, and she was more than grateful for that. Her bank account started filling up, due to so little time to go out and spend any of it.
She never did turn her television back on.
The longer she was around, the more EM expected her to do. She proved that she could handle everything he put on her desk and even went above and beyond what was demanded of her. She shuffled through his door, a cup of coffee in each hand. She handed it to the real estate magnate George Baker who was advising EM on some sort of purchase. He was a heavy-set middle aged man from Texas with an infectious smile and jolly personality. "Cream, no sugar," she said, handing him his cup before giving EM his.
Later that day while she filed some paperwork in his office, Elliott stopped what he was doing and asked, "How did you know?"
Hannah jumped. She hadn't heard his voice address her in three days. When she had gotten to the office, she had found a list on her desk of what was to do be done for the week. "Know what?" she asked, looking over her shoulder at him.
"How he took his coffee," Elliott said, swiveling his chair to fully face her.
Hannah glanced at him and graced him with a rare smile. She didn't smile much, he noticed. Like him. "That's a secretary trade secret."
"Tell me," he demanded, surprising himself. It was nice to hear her voice. He had overheard her on the phone or talking to Tad or the other ladies, but she hadn't spoken to him in at least five days.
"I called his secretary," she conceded.
Elliott nodded, wanting to say more, wanting to make conversation. The concept was alien to him. It wasn't that he didn't like conversation, but in his personal experience, the women he dated generally carried the conversation for him. But Hannah remained close-lipped. If he didn't know any better, he would think her insipid, but he knew she had a good mind.
"How are you settling in here?" he asked, feeling idiotic.
Hannah tilted her head to the side. He was being so... human. She had been entertaining the thought that he was a robot, some weird kind of science project a bunch of genius grad students had designed that had no real need for conversation, or feelings, or basic human needs.
"It has been an adjustment," she answered cryptically.
She hated how he stared at her, like he was seeing parts she didn't often share with people. Like in fourth grade when she cried in the middle of class when she couldn't find her homework, or when she slapped Sam when they were thirteen and he stuck his tongue in her mouth, or how she wore high heels on a first date and tripped going into the coffee shop, or that time when she froze at karaoke when she thought she had finally gotten the courage to get in front of the microphone.
Elliott ran a hand over his face, the roughness reminding him that he had forgotten to shave. Again. "If I have been too hard..."
Hannah held up her hands, palms out toward him, "Mr. Michaels," Hannah shook her head, "that is not the case. It's a good challenge."
Her formality bothered him. He knew he had no right to think that. He demanded respect and obedience from his employees so it was only natural for them to address him by his last name. And, of course, the disastrous night in her office and the awkwardness that followed it didn't help. But here he was, trying to engage her and she was putting a wall up.
Hannah wondered why he sighed that way, the way she did when her car needed a jump when she was already running late. A sigh that sounded so defeated. She looked at him then- really looked at him, something she wasn't certain she had ever really done before.
He looked tired, the dark circles under his eyes suggested many nights without enough sleep. His face was scruffy again, like something had kept him too distracted to remember to shave. He looked slightly out of place, all unkempt and exhausted in a two-thousand dollar suit. Like a mechanic at a funeral.
It was like looking at your mother when you are teenager and seeing the wrinkles and frown lines, the white hairs, and the age spots when all your life you had always seen her as flawless.
She wondered about him then. About his life outside of the walls of EM. What he was like at home. What did he do with his time? Did he watch people make fools of themselves on national television? Did he watch shows about history, or politics? Did he get mad at the news? Did he like to read? Listen to music?
