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I don’t know how to do this, how to navigate things with her. In college, the student association for my major voted me “Most Likely to Become a Priest” because I didn’t date or drink or ever even relax, really. And it’s true. I’m straightlaced. I’m hopeful that hitting the list will help me relax more and take some time to enjoy the recreation around here. But somehow that thought feels scary, like I’ll lose what I’ve worked so hard to gain.
She stands from her desk. “It’s eight o’clock, so if it’s okay with you, I need to get home to my dog.”
“Elianna, I’m sorry about losing my temper earlier—”
She holds up a hand. “It was wrong of me to open the document. I’m sorry.”
“Well, I shouldn’t have expected you to know already how to—” But I don’t finish because she’s already moved to the door.
“See you bright and early!” she calls out and the charm in her voice makes me almost believe she’s okay.
She’s not. I know this by the way her shoulders drooped as she went to the door. I tell myself it shouldn’t bother me. She needs to toughen up and get a thicker skin. But how I reacted is like a sliver under the surface of my own skin, curved and biting.
Finally, after a half hour of fighting with myself about it, I write her an email. Would it be better to do this in person? Yes. But she won’t be back until the morning and this shouldn’t wait.
Elianna,
I apologize about the rudeness of my reaction. I hope to provide a safe work environment and my behavior this afternoon didn’t do that. Please accept my apology. Thanks for being here.
Sebastian.
It’s not Shakespeare. But it’s all I can do right now. And it didn’t have the effect I was hoping it would. I thought it would be out of sight, out of mind. So why do I continue thinking of her the rest of the night?
Chapter 11
Elianna
I’m wearing my power suit and it’s doing its job. Bright blue blazer and skirt with an ivory silk blouse, and I’m Ally McBeal on her good days: tenacious and bold.
It’s my armor.
I don’t mention Sebastian’s email from last night. Yes, I was a good employee and checked my work email when I got home, like I’ve been asked. And I thought it was nice that he apologized. But I tried to put the whole thing out of my head and unpack.
Which translated into a little bit of unpacking, video chatting with my friends in Dana Point, and feeling ravenous enough to make some Ramen at ten at night. Thankfully, I’ve unpacked my small pot and my special-order noodles, which are not cheap. This Ramen alone is reason enough to bring in a steady paycheck. I have to be able to afford my monthly order.
And I hardly thought of Sebastian at all.
But today, I’m back in the office and it’s Sebastian, front and center all the time. There are still moments where I’m wildly confused about this job, but I’m getting the hang of it.
We’re on the sofas across from each other, and I’m typing up random thoughts that come to his mind as he thinks of them.
“Dry cleaning pick up is every second and fourth Tuesday on your way to work,” he says. “The room here at the resort is still available to you if you change your mind.”
“Thanks,” I say, not looking up. “But I won’t be changing my mind.”
The grunt he gives me is saying “we’ll see,” and my annoyance flares. But I promised Ethan I’d behave myself and not get fired, so I bite my tongue.
There are long pauses as he’s thinking, and it gives me enough time to take in the view. Goodness, he’s handsome. Downright too attractive for his own good. The way his eyelashes fan across his cheeks as he sits and reasons, his arms crossed over his chest, is beyond attractive—it’s alluring.
“I’ll need you to communicate with the travel agency to schedule some flights for a company I’m trying to acquire a property from. That involves roundtrip tickets to Denver, as well as driving them in from there. The dates are on The Calendar.”
The Calendar is a digital behemoth, color coded so minutely that I feel like I’ve landed inside a toy kaleidoscope every time I open it up. There are tabs within the tabs of this thing. I’m not used to being organized down to the minute.
During one of his thinking pauses, my curiosity gets the better of me. “So, what’s the story with the dollhouse? It’s really pretty.” He must work on it at night because each day since I started three days ago, I’ve come back to it looking a little more finished. Right now, it’s still in pieces, but the roof’s scalloped edges have been carefully nailed into place.
He glances at it. “I don’t have room for it in my suite.”
“Right. And is this a hobby that you have or something?” Playing with dolls? I smile at the thought of him doing that.
