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Becker glowers at me, unhappy, as I rise from my chair. ‘This isn’t a social club,’ he mutters.
I ignore him, because I’m at work and I need to get that even balance, which means occasionally letting his arsehole attitude slide off my back like oil. Right now, I’m giving him the benefit of the doubt, due to the family feud.
Mr H, however, bites. ‘It’s also not a knocking shop,’ he mumbles under his breath, but loud enough for his grandson to hear.
I wince, but not because his grandad insulted me. He’s just reminded me of the numerous women who might have come before me. Might? I don’t know who on earth I’m trying to kid. Definitely is definitely the right word.
How do I look past this? How do I look past the lack of respect from Mrs Potts and Mr H? I thought you were smarter than that, Eleanor. Not like the rest of the brainless tarts. Yeah, I thought so too, Mr H. But I can hope. It’s all I have, but at what point do I admit defeat? Will I need to admit defeat? Can I change him, prove them all wrong? Hope. I know I’m grappling here, but surely I can cling to his words last night, when he pleaded with me to believe in him.
I want to talk to you, watch you, share my love for my treasure with you. I hope you see my determination to prove to you that I’m a better man than you think.
I have to try. He begged me to try.
I sense the bad vibes bouncing between grandfather and grandson, not daring to squeak a word for fear of tipping either one over the edge. Becker looks a little lost, his mouth flapping open repeatedly like a goldfish, clearly stumped for what to say. I can’t help feeling sorry for him. ‘Work,’ he barks finally, focusing his grievances on me. I’ll let him off, just this once. I didn’t sign anything that gave him the okay to use me as his verbal punching bag.
I pass him, trying to get a sense of how pissed off he really is. It takes a nanosecond. He’s livid. I wander down the corridor, feeling vulnerable with him stalking behind me. I’m torn. I know it’s not my place to say, but what I really want to do is tell him to snap out of it and make peace with his gramps, but just when I think I might brave broaching the subject, Becker slides his hand on to my nape and fists my hair. It’s the sexiest threat ever. ‘I think we need a repeat of last night very soon,’ he whispers in my ear.
My thoughts scatter, leaving only one remaining in my head.
Fuck, yes.
But I don’t say that. Instead, I gather my wits and detach his hand from my neck. ‘Work,’ I say as stably as possible, which isn’t very stable at all.
This balance might be tricky.
I let myself into his office, my legs shaking, and come to a screaming stop when I spot Brent sitting patiently at Becker’s desk. My shaking takes on new heights, and I start retreating, panic beginning to flare. What the hell? I back into Becker, and he nudges me into the room. I flinch when the door slams behind me. The bastard. I feel like I have a big fat sign on my chest saying, ‘Becker’s conned your arse.’
Holy shit, does he know that already? Is that why he’s here?
‘Eleanor.’ Brent’s chirpy greeting and wide smile tell me no, but it doesn’t stop me shifting from foot to foot like my feet are on fire.
‘Hi.’ My voice is high and pained. I cannot believe Becker is doing this to me. ‘Tea?’ My instinct is kicking in and plotting my escape. Now I know the history of the rivalry, I feel even more uncomfortable in their joint presence.
‘No, thank you. Becker told me about your flat.’ He stands and approaches me, shaking his head in disgust. ‘How awful for you.’
‘She’s staying here for the interim,’ Becker says, placing a hand on my shoulder. ‘I have to ensure the safety of my staff.’
‘Of course,’ Brent agrees.
I feel Becker’s fingers flexing on my shoulder, like he’s preparing to grip harder if need be. I hope need not be. His hold is already pretty firm. And he should use the term staff very loosely. I’m not sure what we should call me now. In-house fuck? Or in-house mindfuck? The latter for sure. Especially after last night. And his grandfather’s words are rolling through my mind relentlessly. They’re still stinging.
Don’t give up on me, princess.
Brent’s looking at Becker’s hand on my shoulder with a small smile on his face. ‘Diabolical world we live in, when a single woman can’t even stay in her home and feel safe.’
