Page 43 of Conspiracies and Chemistry

I rolled my shoulders back. “I was working on my report from the conference. I’d like you to review the section on our breakfast with Dr. Deng. I wasn’t sure I captured the nuances of the scientific discussion correctly.”

“Okay.” He took the report from me. I winced at the smeared ink from my sweaty palm, but he didn’t look at it. “Do you have a few minutes to talk?”

“I guess we should. Do you want to do it tomorrow when West can join us?”

“West?” He swayed backward. “Why do we need him?”

“If you’re going to lodge a formal sexual harassment complaint, we should have someone from HR.”

“Oh my god. No. I only want to talk. To you.”

I willed my shoulders to retreat from under my ears. Although Oliver wasn’t going to have me written up, he surely wanted to talk about something I definitely didn’t want to hash through, like feelings.

He set the box on the floor. It was the only clear surface in the storage closet. “Look, I gave you some very mixed messages on Tuesday night, and I’m sorry,” he said. “I?—”

“Fuck you,” I snapped. “I’m forty-three years old, not some fresh-out-of-college grad who gets confused by ‘mixed messages.’ I came on to you, you didn’t want it, and I apologize for my mistake.”

He shook his head. His too-long hair, hair I’d buried my fingers in when I kissed him, flopped across his forehead. “I did want you. I still do. But I want more than a one-night stand.”

Morewrung out my lungs like a dishrag. I struggled to catch my breath. “That’s a terrible idea.”

“Is it?” Behind his glasses, his blue eyes sharpened. “You’re attracted to me. I’m captivated by you. We’re both adults, mature enough to know what we want. I want to get to know you better. I want to know what’s inside there.” He pointed to my chest, where my rusty heart shuddered.

“What if…” I swallowed. “What if you don’t like it?”

“What’s not to like?” he asked, like it wasn’t a rhetorical question, like he really wanted to know.

“Okay.” I leaned against the doorframe. “You asked for it.” I’d never told this story to anyone. So many people had witnessed it firsthand. I searched for where to begin.

“Back when I had my company?—”

“Red Rover,” he said.

“Yes. I met a guy, Harry. He was a hotshot entrepreneur who’d just sold his startup. It was a B-to-B business you’ve never heard of, but it was good money, and he was looking to roll it into his next opportunity. He gave me some advice I thought was valuable. He was British, a few years older than me, and very attractive. I liked him a lot. So I slept with him. And instead of leaving the next morning, he stayed and gave me more advice.

“I thought he liked me, too. Eventually, he invested in Red Rover, and I hired him as my COO. We were partners romantically and at work. He asked me to move in with him, and I did. I trusted him.” My skin was so transparent I knew the burning humiliation showed on it. But I kept going.

“The company was on fire. I was on top of the world. Well, most of the time. I have a chronic condition.” I closed my eyes. Shit, I’d gone this far, might as well reveal the rest. “Endometriosis.” I hadn’t had the diagnosis back in my Red Rover days, and Harry had dismissed it as me being dramatic about PMS until he’d been able to turn it to his benefit. I checked Oliver’s face for a reaction.

His eyes widened, and I saw the pieces click into place.

“Before and during my period, the fatigue was almost debilitating. It was why I’d started the delivery business to begin with. So I, and other people, people with chronic conditions or disabilities, could get what we needed without an exhausting trip to the store. So we didn’t have to cook if we weren’t able. Turned out, it appealed to a lot of people. Our valuation went through the roof.

“Harry suggested selling while the company was at its peak. We’d all seen what happened when the dot-com bubble burst. So I…” I stared at the box on the floor. “When he came to me with a buyer, I was flat on my back with a worse-than-usual flare-up. He said we had to move fast or we’d miss the opportunity. He said I could take it easy and stop working so hard. And I…I was exhausted. I agreed.”

I had to pause until I got my trembling lip under control. Finally, I looked up. His expression was neutral. At least he wasn’t visibly judging me, not yet. “Harry assured me the buyer would take care of the employees, that nothing would change for them. I t-trusted him. I didn’t do more than skim the contract before I signed away control. But he lied for his benefit and, he said, mine. It wasn’t good for the employees. The buyer took away their benefits, their healthcare.”

“You didn’t know.” It was nothing earth-shattering, but at least he’d finally said something.

I had to clear my throat. “I should have. I should’ve slowed things down and consulted an independent lawyer. I shouldn’t have trusted him. Not with my company. And definitely not with my feelings.” I felt my lip curl. Those feelings had made me weak. Vulnerable. Things I hadn’t allowed myself to be for years. “He told me we should enjoy the payout together. Go to South Africa or Tuscany or fucking Antarctica. But I couldn’t celebrate. Certainly not with him after I saw what we’d done.”

“What’d you do instead?” he asked.

“I took the coward’s way out. I quit. I moved into my own place, and I hid from the press, from everyone, waiting for people to forget. I set up a foundation to help the employees.” I stared him in the eye. “It wasn’t enough. I should’ve stayed and fought. But I didn’t. That’s what’s wrong with me. That’s what you won’t like.” I whispered the last part, and thank god I was leaning against the doorframe. It was the only thing keeping me upright.

He stepped closer and put a gentle hand on my sleeve. “You were young, and you got bad advice.”

“I wasn’t much younger than you are now.” My words were tough, but I let his hand remain on me. It felt…nice.

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