He shrugged, and flashed her a confused, boyish look. “With my memory problems, who knows.”
No, she wouldn’t let his innocent boy/wounded soldier routine tug on her heartstrings. Rephrase that. She refused to let them convince her to let him stay. Instead, she counted to ten, and took two deep breaths before speaking, hoping to keep her voice from reaching a pitch only dogs could hear. “You realize I have other job duties, ones that have nothing to do with you, don’t you?”
His gaze roamed around her office. “I can’t imagine getting any work done in this place. The traffic on the old highway sounds like we’re in the stands at a NASCAR race. When it rains or the wind kicks up, the noise on the tin roof is unbearable.”
“That’s why we’re starting a campaign for new administrative offices.” Her hand itched to pick up the closest heavy, but nonlethal object—in this case her “This coffee is broken. I’m still tired.” mug—and hurl it at his head in an unprofessional temper tantrum. “And that brings me back to my presentation, and you needing to leave.”
She jumped from her chair, snatched up her cup, and stormed to the coffeepot on the tall filing cabinet near the door. After refilling her cup, adding a splash of sugar free caramel creamer from the nearby dorm-size fridge, she sipped the steamy liquid. Her temper cooling and her control returning, she nodded toward the door. “If we had a security guard, this is when I’d be calling him to escort you out.”
His butt still stuck to the chair, Owen said, “Are you this blunt with all clients?”
“Just ones who pop in whenever, thinking I’m at his beck and call.” She winced at her snarky tone. But even with his brain trauma, Owen couldn’t be this clueless? Giving herself time to regroup, she sipped her coffee, but this time when the brew hit her stomach, acid bubbled into her throat. She swallowed hard and tried to ignore her nausea.
“Seriously Owen, I’m busy with the duties in my current job. Ones the board holds me accountable for.” Every muscle in her body tightened, and her voice rose in pitch. She set her cup on the cabinet. Liquid sloshed over the rim. “Public speaking is hard enough for me, and if this presentation doesn’t go well—”
Another wave of nausea swept over Carly. Her hand covering her mouth, she bolted for the bathroom. She flung open the door, slammed it behind her, and reached the toilet seconds before her stomach tossed up her breakfast.
A soft tap sounded on the door behind her. “Carly, are you okay?”
“Go away.”
The knob rattled. She hadn’t locked the door. She groaned, placing her hands on the cool industrial tile floor, and tried to push upward. Unfortunately, the movement set off more nausea, followed by more retching.
A soft creak floated toward her as the door opened. “How can I help?”
The good news was she wouldn’t have to worry about speaking engagements anymore because she was going to die of embarrassment. She envisioned the headline in theService Sentinel: “Director of local agency found dead of humiliation sprawled on the office bathroom floor.”
“Get out,” she said with as much force and dignity as possible while kneeling in front of a toilet.
Footsteps tapped across the floor, followed by the ripple of a paper towel pulled from the wall dispenser, and the bubble of running water. Dusty, worn boots appeared beside the white porcelain seconds before a cool, damp towel pressed against her forehead. Then a hand gathered her hair from her face and swept it over her shoulder. Despite Owen’s simple gestures of kindness threatening to shatter her remaining pride, she felt oddly comforted.
“Go away.”
She accepted a second paper towel, wiped her face, and tossed it in the wastebasket to her left. When she started to stand, she wobbled, and his hand cupped her elbow. Grateful for the support, she accepted his help, but once on her feet, she pulled away. Still, his sturdy presence surrounded her. When was the last time she hadn’t felt completely on her own? She wasn’t sure she even knew how to ask for help anymore. Or accept it.
“I’m not sick.”
“Then it’s a damn good impression.”
“Good. I can quit working on my act,” Carly joked as she brushed off her khaki capris and stumbled from the bathroom. Thankfully, she dressed casually, planning to change into a go-out-to-beg-for-money-executive-director dress or suit before she left. “It’ll pass soon. It’s just nerves. I get like this a lot before speaking engagements.”
“You’re kidding.”
Carly shook her head. “With everything going on lately I’m not at my best, so the added stress is ramping up my nerves. Of all my duties, I dislike public speaking the most.”
“Then why do it? That’s the perk of being the boss. You can send someone else.”
“It’s not that simple. For a lot of people, the director is the face of the agency, and when they want someone to speak about the program, that means me. Other people ask me because they’ve known me forever or knew my mom or Grandma Pearl, so I can’t send Holly. Now I’ve got to work on this presentation.”
“I’ll help.”
What was it with him today? Had he taken drive-Carly-as-nuts-as-possible pills? “Thanks for the offer, but you’re not familiar enough with what we do here.”
Dismissing him, she sat behind her desk and stared at the slide on the number of applications received and vets served annually, along with cost per client. How could she make the vital information interesting?
“I can provide the perspective from the other end of the horse, so to speak.”
She glanced up and glared again at Owen seated on the opposite side of her desk, his long muscular legs stretched out in front of him. The man appeared way too comfortable inheroffice. Her patience as tattered as her nerves, she said, “Forget the building fund. I need to raise money to hire security staff to deal with pain in the ass clients like you.”
