FearTheBeard: I suppose you think sending me this pic of you wearing the top half of your lingerie set and nothing else is some sort of payback. You’re right. My hand is tired, but your beloved Myla and I are well acquainted now.
CherryBomb: I don’t know if I should be disturbed or turned on. I’m going with a little of both.
FearTheBeard: No more pics, Cherry. I’m in enough danger of developing tendonitis of the elbow as it is.
CherryBomb: Remember RICE: rest, ice, compress, elevate.
FearTheBeard: You’re kind of evil, you know that?
CherryBomb: I am sweetness personified. And seems only fair that I get a sexy man pic in return.
FearTheBeard: Yeah, no.
CherryBomb: ETHAN!
CherryBomb: GIMME, GIMME, GIMME!
CherryBomb: A picture of you glaring is NOT what I had in mind.
FearTheBeard: Payback’s a bitch, sweetheart.
CherryBomb: I’ll keep that in mind as I go without underwear until I see you again.
FearTheBeard: Fuck.
Chapter Eighteen
Fiona
Returning to work sucks. The realization slaps me across the face hard enough to make me come to a halt. I actively hate walking into this office. I shouldn’t. It’s a beautiful space—a light and airy loft, all brilliant white. White to relax the eye and let us show sample colors in their purest state.
There’s an energy here, as if each person is so grateful to be part of this place that they exude anticipation. Every person but me, apparently. My steps shuffle with clear reluctance, a pit of ugly feeling lodged low in my belly.
No one seems particularly surprised to see me. I get a few sympathetic nods in my direction as I head to my desk.
“Brilliant,” I mutter under my breath. I can handle a lot, but being pitied burns me.
My desk sits in front of a massive Palladian window that starts at the floor and rises over ten feet above me. Outside, traffic is a flowing river, people darting to and fro. I want to be out there with them.
I’m just turning my computer on when Elena appears. Honestly, for someone who’s caused me so much grief, she ought to look the part. I don’t know, maybe have black-and-white hair and long, red nails or something. It would feel so much better if she was also in hot pursuit of a Dalmatian puppy coat.
But she looks…normal. Dark blond hair, snub features, medium height. She looks like the girl who’ll be your best pal—the happy, if not slightly ditzy, sidekick.
It’s a good disguise.
I’m tempted to ask her if she’s Kaiser Soze. But I doubt she’d get the reference. Elena once told a group of us that the only time she was willing to watch a movie was if a date took her to one, and then she’d be moving on—because no way was she going to see a man who thought a movie date was acceptable.
Then again, not a week later, when Felix had mentioned his deep lust for all things Loki, Elena had waxed on about The Avengers and who was the hottest.
I lost points for picking The Hulk. They can look at me as though I’m crazy all they want; when Bruce Banner loses control and fucking roars? My nipples go tight.
For some reason this makes me think of Dex. And I do not want to think about him when Elena is perched on my desk. He’s my happy place. She is not.
“What can I do for you, Elena?”
It doesn’t escape me that she’s tilting her head to catch a glimpse of my computer screen. I don’t know what she expects to find there since I do most of my work on sketch pads.
She gives me a bright smile. The same easy, friendly smile that messes with my head and has me wondering if I’m making more of her than I should.
“Just getting in?”