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Some devious part of me wonders if I should stand my ground. The room isn’t very big, and he’d most definitely have to brush past me to get to where he needs to go.
“Sorry, yeah,” I say, moving the armchair back a little to give him room.
Without a knock, the door opens.
“What’s going on?” Rachel asks, her eyes darting from me to Brent.
He’s positioned in a way that she can’t see the front of his sweats, and for that, I’m grateful. I have no claim over the man, but it’s less to explain.
“You’re supposed to be off today,” she snaps, looking irritated at my presence.
“And you work second shift,” I remind her.
“I traded with one of the other girls.”
I find it highly unlikely, especially after what Kincaid told me last night.
“I’m bringing Brent his—”
“Mr. Porter,” I correct.
She narrows her eyes at me, a scowl on her face. “I’m bringing Mr. Porter his breakfast.”
Brent doesn’t correct me. He doesn’t tell me that it’s okay for Rachel to call him by his given name like he did with me. It makes me feel a way I think I should ignore.
Rachel continues to stare at me, her eyes locking on the side of my face where I have no doubt there are sleep lines.
“If you’re getting paid by Cerberus to work, then I think you probably need to stay awake to actually do that.”
“What’s for breakfast?” Brent asks, trying to distract her.
“My shift ended at midnight,” I remind her, but the second she narrows her eyes even further, to the point she looks like she’s squinting, I realize my mistake.
“Then why are you still here? There’s a strict policy about—”
“I hope it’s pancakes again,” Brent says, stepping forward so he’s between the two of us.
I was never the most popular girl in school, but I can’t recall people being openly mean to me. Is this woman so jealous that she’s willing to be hateful? We’re both adults for heaven’s sake. She should’ve grown out of this long before now.
I want to be petty and ask her why she has on a full face of makeup, with her hair in perfect luxurious waves around her shoulders, when before Cerberus started showing up for Brent, she usually looked like a troll with barely any ChapStick on her lips and her hair in a wild, messy bun.
“Oh, it is pancakes, and there’s extra syrup.”
Rachel shifts her attention to Brent. “I remember you liking it the other day.”
The coo in her voice makes my stomach turn. She has a lot of nerve questioning me when it’s clear she’s throwing herself at his feet. Fraternization in this job is illegal and considered an abuse of power. Normally, it would be open and shut, but I’m not going to argue with anyone about it. The rules are clear.
I turn and gather my things, wondering if I’ll still be able to stay professional when we’re alone in a house across town.
“I have to ask,” Rachel begins, and I can already tell I’m not going to like what she has to say. “If Sunshine has been inappropriate with you in any way, you can tell me. If she’s touched you or made remarks that made you uncomfortable, there’s a hotline you can call to report abuse.”
Brent looks over his shoulder at me, but rather than looking amused or making me think he’s going to hint at something as a joke, he looks less than pleased.
“I have nothing to report. Also, I’m leaving today.”
Rachel looks utterly crestfallen, knowing her chance with him is about to come to an end.
“Sunshine has maintained the utmost professionalism, but if she had touched me in any way, I would’ve enjoyed the hell out of it.”
I glare at his back, resisting the urge to walk up and wrap my hands around his throat to see if he’d enjoy that.
“What I haven’t appreciated is the way your eyes are tracking down my body or the way you purposely kept bending over in front of me and making sure your scrub top hung loose.”
“Br—Mr. Porter, I wasn’t trying to—”
“If you could leave the breakfast tray and that hotline number, I’d appreciate it.”
The tray is lowered to the rolling table with more ease than I’d expect. I watch as Rachel steps around him, pulling a pen and small notebook from the front pocket of her scrub top. She refuses to look in my direction as she scribbles the one-eight-hundred number on the paper before tearing it off. She leaves it on the table beside the covered tray rather than trying to hand it to him. She doesn’t make another sound before walking out of the room.
I open my mouth to apologize, but he turns and glares at me.
“Do not open that pretty mouth and apologize for something someone else has done. This isn’t on you.”
