She pulled a dress off the rack, one that went up to the neck and down to the floor, and held it up considering it for a long moment. No fucking way would she ever wear that in my show.
“Are you so threatened by me that you have to embarrass me in front of the whole university?”
She balled a dress in her hands, holding it in front of her body as if to shield herself from whatever she thought I would say.
“I told you, I don’t want your job. I have no desire to direct, to take your spotlight, or somehow outshine you.”
I wasn’t tracking. She didn’t seem to care though, resuming her phrenetic search for a piece of clothing she approved of. Whatever had riled her into a tizzy wasn’t letting go anytime soon. Her verbal barrage continued while she considered and tossed aside at least a dozen more dresses on the rack in front of her.
“But this? I draw the line. I will not allow you to parade me out in front of thousands of people just so you can make a fool out of me. It’s not right. Regardless of how mad you are at me. How bruised your ego is because I put the brakes on our little rendezvous, I won’t tolerate being offered up for public embarrassment just because you have some vendetta against me.”
Vendetta?
“Imogen, what are you playing at?”
“How dare you. Howdareyou. All this because I freaked out and left you before you could get off.”
I pushed the door shut, probably with more thrust than needed as it shook on its hinges. I’d been concerned that someone like Kennedy might be looking for me and would accidentally overhear.
“Imogen, I have zero idea what is going on or why you’re so upset. Kennedy told me to come find you so here I am.”
“A negligée Sebastian? Really? Even for you that’s low.” She grabbed the offending object off the chair behind her and threw it at my head. Given its silken shape it came nowhere near me. “By all means, sexualize me in front of all of my colleagues, the dean, the provost, the literary community.” She ticked off her list against her fingers, practically bending each digit backwards she pressed them each with such force, “I did you a favor and this is how you treat me?”
“The witch needs to be seduction, Imogen—”
“I know!” she snapped, yanking another dress from the rack, “You sound like a broken fucking record. But just like a man—you think that seduction means throwing a piece of lingerie on a woman and have her prance around a stage leaving nothing to the imagination.”
I watched her shove aside an entire rack of clothing, apparently offended by the whole lot.
“Was the whole night of movie watching just a set up to laugh at the little mouse?”
Her voice cracked, and in that moment exposed a layer beneath the rage that I never realized was there.
“Oh come off it, Sebastian. I know what you all call me behind my back. I stupidly thought you were truly trying to help me feel comfortable with this role. Why go through such a song and dance, telling me this is about seduction if you were just going to sexualize me?”
She pushed past me, reaching for the doorknob, her lips drawn in the most intimidating sneer I’d ever experienced from her. The look totally melted in an instant though as she jiggled the door, and it didn’t budge.
Chapter 11
Itried to keep my breathing steady. It wasn’t a small room by any account. Perhaps it was the infinite racks of musty costumes, the lack of lighting, or maybe the potential of being locked in this room with Sebastian that made my heart pound and my eyesight go soft on either side.
“Why on earth did you even close the fucking door?”
I watched him jiggle the handle, throw his shoulder into the door, swear in a million British expletives that normally would make me giggle if we weren’t presently stuck.
“Because you started ranting about encounters and getting off—and believe it or not I care about keeping your studious and pious nature protected.”
I pushed him out of the way, unconvinced he put his full effort into getting the door open. After three heaving pushes against the frame, I gave up. My legs gave out beneath me and I sunk to the floor. Liquid panic licked at every nerve and pushed through my blood stream, making me woozy.
He cocked his head, watching me slither down the frame. He brushed the hair off my forehead, running his palm across my forehead and down my cheek.
“Are you okay?” he asked, continuing to feel my face.
“You’re really going to ask that after everything that has gone down for the last twenty minutes?”
“I mean right now, Imogen. You went from red faced and full of piss and vinegar to sheet white and clammy.”
“Tiny, enclosed space.” I took a few deep breaths trying to work through the calming exercises I’d used since childhood to get me through these bouts of panic.