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Quintessa
“Girl, what was that?” Zahara asks as I set my food tray on the table. I sit down, looking around, feeling like I got a target on my back.
“It’s nothing, Zee.” I plaster a smile on my face to disguise my frustration, but I’m not sure if it’s working.
“Well, it didn’t look like nothing. This is like the second time he’s pulled you aside to talk in private. What’s going on? Are you like working for him or something?”
I laugh it off and say, “We’re all working for him, Zahara.”
“I don’t mean like that. I mean, like spying on everybody?”
I grin. “No, I’m not a spy. Mr. DePaul wants to know why Greta is not giving me more work,” I say. It’s partially true, just not the whole truth. “I’ll probably get fired soon, anyway, which would be a good thing. Then I wouldn’t have to worry about hearing his big mouth all the time.”
“No! Don’t say that,” Zahara says. “I want you to stay. You’re like the same age as me. I can’t kick it with Greta. She’s too old, and she’s the boss. That would be awkward. Who wants to hang out with their boss?”
“Well, you have Mauve.”
“Girl, please. If you haven’t noticed, Mauve is in her own world.”
“Yeah, but I wouldn’t be able to stop Mr. DePaul from firing me if that’s what he wanted to do. You know how he is. In the short time I’ve been here, I know how he is. You were right about him. About everything. I just…ugh—”
“Oh, shoot,” Zahara says. “He’s back.”
My stomach instantly gets tight and crampy. “Please tell me he’s not coming over here.”
“Crap! Looks like he is.”
And now I’m a sitting duck, forcing myself to eat this chicken sandwich that was so good the other day, I had to get it again today. Now that I’m the object of Essex’s wrath, the sandwich just doesn’t taste as palatable. I may as well be chewing plastic.
Essex pulls out a chair and invites himself to our table. I do not believe this is happening. The discomfort I feel is immeasurable. My belly aches. I don’t know what to say or what to do. What is he doing? This is crazy. Has he lost his mind?
He says, “Ms. Valentine, I need to talk to Ms. Bailey alone.”
“Yes, sir,” Zahara says quickly, standing and leaving with her tray. She was almost done eating anyway, but I still hate that he’s jacked our lunch time together. That he’s making her leave.
As she walks away, he sets his eyes on me and says, “I wasn’t done talking to you earlier.”
“What are you doing?” I ask behind semi-clenched teeth, glancing around at everyone who’s looking over here at us. I’ll never live this down. Never!
“I wasn’t done talking to you before you left the conference room, so I figured I’d finish saying what I had to say.” He places his hands on the table, locking his fingers together like this is a casual meeting between us. He continues, “I’m not as difficult as you make me out to be. And I’m not beyond repair. I know I’m a little much for you, but I thought you were up for the task.”
I’m still nerve-struck. I might as well be on stage right now by the way everyone is looking at me. At us. I can’t believe this is happening.
I ask discreetly, “Do you see this?”
He frowns. “What?”
“We have an audience, thanks to you. That’s what I was trying to avoid.”
“Then maybe you shouldn’t have left the conference room. And why are you so pressed about them? Don’t pay them any attention. I want your attention,” he says and when I don’t look at him, he adds, “All of it.”
Dominance hangs in his espresso gaze, but something softer is there – something in their deep, dilated depths of darkness. He looks like he wants more from me than what he’s asking for, even though what he’s asking for is a lot. But what more can I give?
Being that I cannot control the actions of another person, I control what I can control, and that’s myself. So, I soften my gaze and focus on deescalating the situation. “What exactly did I do wrong that’s got you doing this right now?”
“I don’t like how you stroll by me like you don’t know me when I was at your place last night, helping you paint and all that.”
“Shh, keep your voice down.”
