“My God, Gemma,” Keeley says, entering my apartment. “It looks like you just moved in. Are you never going to decorate?”
She says this every time she comes here, which is, admittedly, not often. Even when she lived next door, we always hung out at her place, and now that she has a lusciously equipped two-bedroom fully stocked with junk food and alcohol, it’s a given.
“I have a couch and a TV,” I tell her. “What more do I need?”
“Some sign that you’re human, or female?” She places a garment bag over the back of a chair, then looks around at my bare walls, as if it’s her first time seeing them. “I’ve stayed in executive hotel rooms that are homier than this.”
I wave a hand at her. “I’m too busy. I’ll worry about it once I’ve made partner.”
“Yeah, then you’ll be on easy street,” she scoffs. “Partners do no work at all, right?”
I open a bottle of wine. “I’ll worry about your very valid point once I’ve made partner. What did you bring me?”
“A selection of four dresses that are going to make Ben Tate weep,” she replies with a triumphant smile. My eye roll has zero effect on her enthusiasm.
This makeover, of sorts, was Keeley’s idea when she heard Ben was attending this thing. I initially refused, but she said, “promise you’re not wearing that funeral dress”—by which she meant the one and only cocktail dress I own—and I conceded because, yes, that was what I intended to wear.
“I’m not dressing like a hooker,” I warn, handing her a glass of wine while I peek in the bag. “No sequins, nothing that barely covers my ass or has the midriff cut out.”
She stares at me balefully. “I’ll try very hard not to take offense at that statement, Gemma. And it will be nearly impossible.”
I notice, however, that she did indeed bring both a sequined dress and one with the midriff cut out.
I take one of the remaining two and go to my room to put it on. It’s purple, a gorgeous matte jersey with just the right amount of cling, but as I look down at the figure-hugging dress, I’m not sure.
“Maybe it’s too bright?” I ask hesitantly, walking back into the living room.
“Dude, all you wear is black or navy blue. It’s time to stand out a little.”
I shuffle in place. “I don’t want him to think I’m doing this for him.”
“Look at yourself in the mirror,” she replies, turning me to face the cheap mirror hanging on the back of my bedroom door. “He’s going to be too busy kicking himself to think.”
I look at my reflection…and I’m forced to agree. The dress is sleeveless, with a draping Grecian neck and tucked-in waist, and it makes me feel like a goddess.
Which is probably how I need to feel to survive an entire evening by Ben Tate’s side.
Shortly before it’s time to leave Thursday night, I go into the bathroom at work and change into the dress before attempting day-to-night makeup, which I read about unnecessarily often as a teen, given how little I’ve needed to do it.
My eyeshadow is a bit smokier, and my lips go red. I’m not sure I needed an article to figure that much out.
I don the dress, slip into a pair of glittery Jimmy Choos, and I’m ready to go. “This isn’t weird,” I tell myself in the mirror as I slick one coat of gloss over my newly red lips. It’s not weird at all that you’re going with him. It’s just like any other event you’d attend with a colleague, as long as you’d allowed that colleague to fuck you on his desk first.
At least it won’t be weird for him. I’m sure it’s not the first time he’s been in this situation.
I ignore the quick pace of my heart as I walk toward the elevator, where he waits in a tux. I think of that wedding photo on Drew Bailey’s Instagram, and the tender way he looked at her. I could almost believe there’s something similar in the way he’s gazing at me now, but that would be a really dangerous line of thought, under the circumstances. Refusing to forgive him feels like the only thing keeping me safe.
A muscle flickers in his temple. “You look nice.”
“Thank you,” I reply coolly.
If he’s waiting for me to say it back to him, he’ll be waiting a very long time.
I push the button to call the elevator since he apparently doesn’t plan to do so, then walk in ahead of him. I draw in a calming breath but get the smell of his soap and aftershave, which is the opposite of calming. Before I can stop myself, my brain flashes back to that night on his desk, his mouth buried in my neck as he came. His smell, his sweat, how tightly he held onto me for a moment before he pulled away.
“Look,” he says, shoving his hands in his pockets as we walk off the elevator, “can we just call a truce for tonight? There are going to be enough people there trying to stab us in the back without stabbing each other too.”
Every childish bone in my body wants to refuse, but he’s right, and admitting I’m still hurt by what he did would give him a power I don’t care to hand over anyway. I’m going to put this behind me and act like the soon-to-be-partner I am. I haven’t come this far to fuck it all by sleeping with colleagues, and I’m not going to fuck it up by playing games afterward either. It’s done.
“Of course,” I reply, my smile forced, but civil. I take a deep breath and drive the night in his office out of my head. From now on, I’m only focusing on work when he’s around.
We climb into the car. I fold my hands in my lap and force myself to meet his eye. If we were colleagues, only colleagues, I’d probably discuss the case we have in common, so that’s exactly what I’m going to do. “We just got the results of the financial inquiry of Fiducia,” I tell him. “They spent a significant amount of money on corporate retreats.”
“So we need to find out what they did and if any female managers were invited.”
No shit, I’m about to say, and then I stop myself. The sex has to stop, obviously, but the bickering that leads to sex needs to stop too. “I’ve got someone checking,” I say instead.
The driver weaves through LA, and I stare out the window. We pass Kyle’s old apartment and then the Tiffany’s where we chose a ring. It was princess cut, and we compromised on two carats though he wanted me to go bigger. “When we get married,” he’d said, “I want everyone to know you’re taken.”
For a single moment I can remember the girl I was back then. I wasn’t the child jumping in puddles that my mother discusses, but I wasn’t nearly so removed from her as I am now.
“Could we try something?” Ben asks, pulling me from my memories. “Could we just talk? Not about work.”
I turn my head toward him. It seems like a bad idea—boundaries are clearly not my strong suit when it comes to Ben, and maintaining a strictly professional relationship is easiest when our interaction remains work-related. “I’m not sure what else we’d talk about.”
“You could tell me what the deal is with your parents,” he suggests. “Why’d you get so upset that night I brought it up?”
I laugh. “Wow, Ben, you’re so good at small talk. Why don’t we talk about the worst thing you’ve ever been through instead?”