So later that day I call in reinforcements in the form of my sister, and my cousin Jo. They meet me at Doctor Insomnia’s Tea and Coffee Emporium that afternoon. I order something gooey and sugary for my sister and something with bubbles for Jo, and when they arrive, I slide the drinks in front of them.
Jo’s grin is as wide as the city—that’s her style. She’s an art expert, and one of the cheeriest people I know. “You remembered I like black cherry seltzer water,” she says.
“He’s amazing, truly,” Rory deadpans then snags the sugar concoction. “And thank you for the caramel-monkey-cino for me.”
Jo laughs, her blue eyes glittery, then she turns serious eyes to me. “What’s going on, Easton?”
I drag a hand through my hair, still utterly fucking frustrated with that jackass. But I don’t want to reveal Bellamy’s situation to anyone, so I keep the specifics veiled. “There’s a woman I know, and today I met this guy she works with and got kind of a Harvey Weinstein vibe from him. A worrisome disregard for my friend’s personal bubble,” I say.
Rory gags. “Ugh. Gross.”
“That’s terrible,” Jo says, sympathy in her eyes. “What happened?”
I give them more details, and then, because this is new to me, I just shrug and admit I’m flying blind. “Is it my place to say something?”
“To her?” Rory asks.
“Yes. I truly don’t know.”
Rory and Jo look to each other, question marks in their eyes.
Then Jo answers, “Maybe to let her know you give a shit about her.”
That seems clear enough.
Because . . . I do.
That evening, I pick up the phone and call Bellamy while pacing my apartment.
She answers on the third ring. “Did you forget to tell me how amazing you are?” she asks, sounding just like the woman I know.
But I don’t take the bait. “Nope. Not why I’m calling.”
“Then to what do I owe the honor of this call? Are you going to wax on more about spark? How it’s the only way? Or maybe ask me if I’ve kissed any more frogs?”
I strip all teasing from my tone. “No. I wanted to call about earlier. Are you okay?”
“Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?” And just like that, some of the flirting is stripped from her tone, her words all formal and precise. She’s got her guard up.
“Because of what happened,” I say, unsure how to begin.
“Because you left? Nah. We were all done. And you made your case for Carpe Diem.”
I’ve run up against that wall of hers, but in this situation, I don’t let her keep me out.
“Bellamy,” I begin, walking past the window overlooking the park. “I got the sense that David makes you uncomfortable, and with good reason. His behavior borders on harassment. I didn’t think he’d react well professionally if he caught on to the fact that I’d just been kissing you, and I didn’t want to leave you alone with him if you felt uncomfortable. That’s why I asked if you wanted me to stick around. And I’m sure you can handle yourself—you strike me as more than capable. But I just wanted to know if you’re . . . well, okay?”
“Oh . . .” She’s quiet for a long while. “Thanks for asking. But honestly, it’s fine. Really, it’s fine.”
There’s that tough girl facade.
I arch a brow. “Are you sure?”
She sighs heavily. “Seriously. It’s fine.”
But anyone who says she’s fine three times is anything but. “Does he make you feel uncomfortable?”
“It doesn’t matter. I know women who have it a lot worse. You should hear the stories from some of my friends.”
“But it doesn’t have to be that way,” I point out.
“Not for you. But it’s a fact of life for women in the workplace. I don’t know anyone who hasn’t had to deal with it at some point on some level.”
I hate how resigned she sounds. “But none of you should have to,” I protest.
“My show is about dating and romance,” she says with a fatalistic sigh. “That makes some people think they can say anything they want. Like talk about my clothes. Or stare. But he’s never crossed a line.”
“Doesn’t make it right.”
“Of course not. But that doesn’t mean it’s not an unfortunate reality.”
I drag a hand down my face. This shit is not okay. “If this happened to my sister . . .”
She laughs heartily. “I’m not your sister. And it’s a damn good thing, isn’t it? Given how deep your tongue was down my throat.”
I manage a small laugh. “Yes. Obviously yes.” I can sense she’s done with this conversation, but I can’t let it go. “There are things—”
“Thank you. Easton, truly. I appreciate you saying all this, but I don’t want to talk about him. It’s hard enough that he’s my producer, and I hate that he has any say about the show, but he’s all talk. It sucks to have to listen to him, but that’s life. He doesn’t know where I live, and I made sure he doesn’t have my direct phone number,” she says and there’s a note of utter delight in her voice. Like she’s pleased with that defiance. “The buffer around my home life is my act of resistance. So, I’d just as soon not talk about him while I’m here.”
I stare out the window, casting about for something else, anything else. If she wants me to drop it, I ought to drop it. But I’m coming up empty.
“Let’s talk about the fact that you didn’t research me for your party,” she says, rerouting the conversation.
I blink. What is she talking about? “What do you mean?”
“C’mon. You were all I do my research, but you didn’t know I’d be there,” she says, taunting me. Because that’s what we do.
And if she needs to return to sparring, if it makes her feel safe to push me out to familiar, bantery territory, I’ll damn well respect that boundary.
“Because I gave Hazel an open invitation,” I point out. “I said she could invite anyone she wanted. I could hardly research a plus one.”
“Keep telling yourself that, cowboy,” she says. “But you and I know the truth.”
“And what’s that?”
“I crashed your party,” she says, all sing-song, like she’s poking and prodding me.
And she is.
“Fine. You did,” I say, conceding.
“I’ve got your number,” she teases.
“Yes, you do. I gave it to you.”
“And I gave you mine,” she says, pointedly.
Ohhh, I see. She gave me her number. This thing between us—whatever it is—is a choice. A mutual one, and so the opposite of whatever uncomfortable shit she faces when she opens those double glass doors at the office.
Work conversation is over; she’s making that clear. I ought to lean into the moment. Go with the flow. “So, question for you, Ms. Horse Lover.”
“Hit me up.”
“Do you still ride?”
“I do.” A definite, dreamy smile enters her voice. “I go to a little place outside the city some weekends. My dad lives in Connecticut with his wife—my stepmom. She’s amazing, and they found a great stable.”