Page 26 of Dante
Turning away, he strode to the cabinet and poured a generous amount of scotch into the glass. He wanted to scoop her up and cradle her. The urge to do so was so strong, it was alarming. Clenching his fingers on the glass, he stared out the window, the lights from the buildings around, dazzling, almost blinding him.She had shared something personal with him and there was no turning back now.
"I should go." Her voice was small and sounded vulnerable.
"Yes." He bit out. "I need to think."
"Will you let me know your decision? I'm not going to beg for my job, even if it's the best I ever had."
He turned to her then and felt the familiar ache inside him starting. If she didn't leave now, he was going to do something unforgivable, like ravishing her. And it wouldn't matter one damn that she was pregnant with another man's baby.
She stood, gathering her bag with hands that tried not to shake, her gaze fixed on the lush pattern of the carpet rather than his face. But before she reached the door, she paused, as if listening for some final word to change the direction of fate. The silence between them was electric, full of all the words neither could say.
"I'll come in Monday," she managed, her voice steadier than she felt, "unless you tell me otherwise."
She didn't wait for his answer, didn't trust herself to look back. The corridor outside felt colder than she remembered, the echo of her footsteps loud in the hush of after-hours.
Inside, he gripped the edge of the desk until his knuckles whitened, the scotch burning down his throat. He was torn between wanting her gone and needing her to stay for reasons he could scarcely acknowledge, even to himself. Through the glass, he watched the city lights blur and wondered at the impossibility of undoing what had just been said.
Tomorrow, he told himself. He would have to decide by tomorrow. But the truth, a truth he could not yet voice, was that his decision had already been made, sealed in the ache that now resided in his chest, relentless as the turning of the night.
He could not concentrate on anything after she left. The file was still open on his desk, but there was no damn way he was ever going to wrap his head around the documents. He could still see her, crouched on the floor, retching her life out. It had shattered him, opened something in him he had never felt before.
All his life had consisted of abuse and bitterness. He had learned from a very young age to dodge fists and bottles thrown by his mother who had taken her anger and failure out on him. He had been a handy target. Young, skinny and afraid. So, he had learned to stay away from her.
In the end she had tried asking him for forgiveness and he had never given it. She had died knowing how much he despised her. She had never been a mother to him.
Dragging his fingers through his hair, he paced the length of his office. He wanted her. Holy God. He was craving her. And it had to stop. He could transfer her to another department. No question would be asked. He could find someone to replace her. Someone in the company. An older woman with experience. He could.
Goddammit to hell! He squeezed his eyes shut. He could not allow that. She would still be in the company, and he would be aware of it. What the hell was he going to do?
He slumped into his chair, the leather creaking under his weight, and scrubbed at his face with both hands. The ache inside him threatened to spill over, to drown out everything else. Logic,responsibility, the very shell he'd built to keep the world at bay. In the street below, the headlamps and taillights painted rivers of gold and red across the dark asphalt, indifferent to the private storms raging above.
He let the scotch settle in his gut, hoping for numbness that refused to come. His mind flicked back to her trembling hands, her refusal to beg, the quiet dignity with which she'd held herself together even as everything unraveled. He admired her for it. Envied her strength. And hated himself for wanting her so much it hurt.
The file on his desk might as well have been written in another language. He flipped it shut with a snap, the sound too sharp in the empty room. He wondered what she was doing now. If she'd made it home safely, if there was someone waiting for her, someone to hold her hair back and whisper reassurances in the dark.
The jealousy was childish, irrational, and utterly consuming. But no, she had told him the bastard had disappeared as soon as she told him the news. Did she love him? His heart quickened at that, and he had to remind himself that it was none of his concern.
He stood again, restless, and crossed to the window. His reflection stared back at him, pale and haunted, eyes sunk deep in their sockets from too many sleepless nights. If only he could find a way to slice his feelings off, to leave them at the office door like a forgotten umbrella. But they clung to him, heavy as regret.
Tomorrow. The word echoed, hollow. He wanted to believe in the promise of a new day, that with the sunrise he'd find answers, or at least the courage to act. But the night was long, and every minute without her pressed down harder on his ribcage, until he could hardly breathe.
He didn't know how long he stood there, watching the city pulse and shift. When he finally moved, it was with the slow determination of a man who knew he'd have to face himself before he could face anyone else. He gathered his things, shutting off the office light, but her presence lingered, an afterimage, a promise, a question without answer.
As he stepped into the corridor, he told himself again that he would decide by tomorrow. And prayed that, when the time came, he'd be strong enough to live with his choice.
After a very sleepless night, she rose early in the morning and started cleaning. That's what she did. If she was going through a very rough patch, she would take it out on housework. By the time it was midmorning, she had cleaned from top to bottom.
The place sparkled, the scent of lemon and beeswax vying for supremacy. And she had not been sick once. She cursed the contrariness of her pregnancy and had a strong pep talk with the fetus growing inside her. And called her brother after.
She might be out of a job and would have to depend on him for support for a little bit. Six months or thereabouts. She had some money saved up, but that was going to take her so far and no further.
By the time Caleb arrived, she had baked chocolate chip and caramel cookies and had vegetable soup simmering on the stove. And she was exhausted and feeling weepy.
He came into the kitchen and took one look at her face and knew something was wrong.
"The soup is almost ready."
"Never mind that." Pulling up a chair, he sat across from her and took her hands. "What?"
