I think for a second, sitting up so I can see Bree’s face—plus keeping my head down like that was giving me a headache. “No, I mean . . . he never said anything like that. Not yet at least.”
“So, don’t let him,” she says. “March into his office on Monday and tell him that a little thing like you not telling him where you really worked and him being your boss shouldn’t stop whatever was happening between you.”
“Magic,” I say on a sigh.
“Huh?” Bree says, her lip curling up on the side.
“It was magical between us.”
“Gross,” Thomas offers. “You know, they have an ointment for that.”
I roll my eyes at Thomas.
“Okay, sure. Magic,” Bree says. “I think you should ask him why a little warranted dishonesty between two people should stop this magical thing from happening.”
“Maybe don’t say ‘magical,’” Thomas says. “It makes you sound a little hokey.”
I let my shoulders slump. “What if it’s not enough? What if the lie is too big and he can’t get over it? I know I had my reasons, and while I guess they were valid—”
“They were totally valid,” Thomas says. This is probably more to defend his own interference in the whole thing than to make me feel better.
“Just go talk to him. And don’t take no for an answer,” Bree says.
“Yeah, you march right in there, and you tell him. If he really wants you, one little lie shouldn’t get in the way,” Thomas says, pointing at me with his index finger.
I think about it for a beat. Could I do that? Could I walk into Henry’s office on Monday and tell him that this is stupid and we should just overlook it all and be together? Do I have the gumption? The nerve? In truth . . . I don’t. But I also think Henry and I should be together. I feel it in my bones. And I barely even know the guy. That has to mean something, doesn’t it?
I sit up a little straighter. “Okay, I’ll do it.”
“You go,” Bree says, with a nod of her head. “You got this.”
I don’t feel like I’ve “got” much of anything right now, but I do have a tiny morsel of hope, and I have to try.
“And if all else fails,” Thomas says with a mischievous glint in his eye, “boobs.”
Chapter 10
Thomas and Bree are right. Why did I just assume that because Henry is my boss that what we have is just going to end?
I mean, we both withheld things, we both had good reason, but now that it’s all out in the open, we can roll with this thing. And there is a thing here. I feel it, and I know he does.
I don’t text Henry or call him over the weekend. I decide that we both need some space and also I want him to see my face, to hear the earnestness in my voice when I tell him how I feel. I also need to prep myself. There are a lot of practice conversations in the mirror.
It’s finally Monday and today is the day. I walk into the station with a new hop to my step. Time to seize the cupcake. I think I’m finally getting it now. Plus, workplace romances are sexy. Well, maybe not so much with Brady. That was more just fun with a side of boring. But with Henry, it would be sexy. And since I’m familiar with this station—much more than Henry is—I know all the dark corners and closed-off rooms we could make out in. So many possibilities.
I make my way to my desk, putting my purse in the bottom drawer of my useless filing cabinet. Normally after this I’d do makeup, but today I made sure my makeup was perfect before I left my apartment, and I drove here with full air-conditioning on my face so it wouldn’t melt off in this July heat. I took extra precautions with my hair and wore my cranberry-red suit jacket and matching skirt that hugs me in all the right places.
I’m feeling confident and very comfortable in my own skin today—which isn’t my norm. Usually there’s a lot of self-doubt and worry that something won’t look good on camera. My lipstick, my hair, my hips. But today I’m not settling for kale; I’m seizing the cupcake. I’m taking it by the sprinkles and making that cupcake mine.
Normally after my makeup and hair are done, I look at my email and see what people have to say about my previous broadcast. But I don’t want to see that today. I don’t want all that negative energy surrounding me right now. I certainly don’t need Grace Is Amazing ruining my mojo.
I get up from my desk, try not to run into Jerry as I move through the station, and make my way to Henry’s office, hoping he’s alone so I can talk with him. I’ll let him know that this is going to happen—him and me—and then the games shall begin.
I go to knock on his door but then stop myself, feeling butterflies dance in my stomach. I’m a woman on a mission, but apparently my body has decided now is the time to send me signals of anxiety, and my mind starts shooting out little messages of doubt. All my practiced mirror chats are forgotten as I stand at Henry’s door. I’m a tiny nervous kitten, waiting on a giant bulldog. But Henry’s not a bulldog. At least, he’s never been one to me. So why am I so afraid?
Through the door, I hear muffled laughter, and one of the voices is definitely a woman. I get a little closer, nearly putting my ear on the door, but all I can hear are low, muffled tones—which I’m assuming are Henry’s—and intermittent higher-pitched ones.
And then I hear it. The unmistakable witchy laugh of Moriarty. It gets louder as if she’s now projecting it through the door. And just as I realize why her voice is getting so loud, the door opens, and I nearly fall through from having my ear pasted to it. Both Henry and Moriarty are standing there, Henry’s hand on the door as he holds it open for Moriarty. I catch Henry’s big smile—the one I find so appealing, with full dimple happening—fall from his face as he sees me.
Was I caught eavesdropping? Yes, I was. Am I going to admit to it? Nope.
“Well, hello there, Quinn,” Moriarty says when she sees me. Her lips are done up flawlessly in a deep shade of red. She purses them at me.
“Mor—Stacey,” I say, dipping my chin in acknowledgment.
She turns back to Henry before stepping out the door of his office. “Thanks for the chat. I’m really looking forward to working with you.” She smiles a bright smile at him and then, turning toward me with her back to him, that smile changes to something a lot more sinister.
I probably should warn Henry that although she sounds all bubbly and perfect right now, she’s essentially the spawn of Satan and he should be on his guard at all times. Any moment, her horns can come out.
I give her my best closed-mouth, I-don’t-like-you-much smile and then turn my attentions toward Henry as Moriarty makes her way out of the room and down the hall, her hips swishing back and forth likes she’s Beyoncé.
News flash: she’s not.
“What can I do for you, Quinn?” Henry says, no lightness to his voice. No tinge of the man I had dinner with last week.
I swallow. “I was hoping I could talk to you?”
He looks down at the black leather-banded watch on his wrist. “I have a few minutes,” he says, and then he stands to the side as if to usher me in.
I take a seat in the chair placed in front of his desk. The chair feels warm, and I wonder if Moriarty’s butt was recently in it. I briefly wonder if I should move to the other chair, because I don’t want her cooties. Then I realize how childish that sounds, but I move to the other chair anyway.