Chapter 4
4
A knock on my door forces me to quickly switch tabs on my computer screen. Not that aggregating the code for designs the department has already worked on would be seen as suspicious, but…I’m not actually compiling them to familiarize myself with them, so I feel suspicious. If I feel suspicious, then I will act suspicious. It’s a rabbit hole that’s best avoided, if at all possible.
“Hey, um, Elise. Do you have a minute?” Carly asks from the doorway to my office.
Red flag.
Carly does not have a hesitant personality. In the four weeks that I’ve been employed at Chester Biotech, I’ve come to discover that she is lovely—physically and emotionally. She’s bubbly, sometimes overly loud, and always dresses quite stylishly.
She almost never uses words like “um” in her daily speech. Unless she has to do something that makes her uncomfortable.
Like tell the waiter at our weekly platonic lunch date that she received the wrong order.
These regularly scheduled meet-ups have been the saving grace of my time thus far at Chester. Since Carly doesn’t fall under the umbrella of my investigations, I don’t act suspiciously around her.
“Will thirty seconds do?” I ask her as I put my computer in sleep mode before spinning in my chair to give her my full attention.
I am honestly busy, but my only friend here deserves my full attention if she needs it.
She smiles, but it is not her genuinely happy one. “This will only take a quick sex.” Her face blanches. “Sec. It will only take a second of your time,” she backpedals.
I laugh off her unintentional misuse of a word. I do it all the time when I’m flustered, which she clearly is.
I glance at my smartwatch then raise my eyebrows at her. I’ve gotten quite adept at harmless teasing. “Your second is already up. Care to rephrase your statement?”
“I’d love to rephrase some misogynist attitudes,” she mutters before taking a seat on the full-length sofa that I purchased with my own funds.
Carly’s smile reverses course to a frown. “You know I adore you, right? I would never say anything to purposefully hurt you, and I think you’re a truly brilliant scientist.”
“Thank you,” I respond automatically. “I have grown quite fond of our friendship as well. Likewise, you are a beautiful, fun person.”
Her frown deepens. She wrings her hands on her lap. “I genuinely, genuinely hate having to say any of this, but I also have a job to do.”
My judgment about her competence ratchets up a notch. I have immense respect for people who carry out their jobs in spite of personal discomfort. I also have the utmost empathy for it.
“You have to dress more conservatively,” she finally blurts. She follows this up with a second blurt, “You’re no longer permitted to sleep at the office.”
I make a time-out gesture with my hands. The first statement is shocking enough. The second statement piles on unnecessarily before I’ve had time to process the first.
I glance down at my blouse. The same one from my first day. The one that Carly informed me screams genius in the streets, dominant in the sheets. The one she assured me was an excellent choice.
“I knew the collar was cut too low,” I mutter.
This is an unforeseen problem. Am I completely comfortable wearing this type of attire to my place of employment? No. Am I aware after years of careful research about social skills that my choice of clothing sends certain messages to people? Yes. In fact, I have been using this knowledge to my advantage for the past few weeks.
Appearing as a confident, assured professional in the workplace sends an important message.
Nothing to see here, gentlemen! No spy, hired to suss out which of you is a traitorous traitor! Look at these high heels with the flashy red bottoms! So distracting!
Carly has taken me on several shopping trips to adjust my wardrobe to something less science nerd in favor of subtler dominant in the sheets . She even enlisted the help of another supportive female from our ranks, Maeve.
I’ve learned several very important things about Maeve since our initial lunch date together.
She works in the extremely small, understaffed marketing department at Chester Biotech. She’s another potential friend in the making, but understandably not quite as open as Carly. Her demeanor is cool and civil, yet she also stares at me in a way that makes me feel as though she believes I am her competition in some invisible game that I didn’t know we were playing .
Which strikes me as odd. In a social setting, Maeve would win every competition I might stupidly wage against her. With long blonde hair, blue eyes, a svelte figure, and modelesque height, most people would gravitate toward her natural beauty. It’s truly a wonder that no one has filed a complaint against her usual choice of clothing. While I’ve learned to dress professionally without hiding my feminine assets, she showcases her figure in ways that aren’t necessarily professional.
Her frosty behavior is fine though. Everyone has different personalities. Maeve’s happens to be as cautious as mine. I actually like that very much about her. It will make winning her friendship much sweeter if it’s a challenge. Obviously, she has not yet thawed enough toward me to trust me with her own personal stories of misogynistic bullying and how she learned to thrive despite them.
“Okay,” I concede, knowing full well that my wardrobe has been toeing the line of professionalism. “I understand about the clothes.”
This is clearly another way in which Peter is playing games with me. I file it in my mental checklist of offenses he’s committed against me.
“Off the record, I think it’s total bullshit,” Carly whispers. “You should be able to wear whatever makes you feel fabulous and powerful. Fragile male egos be damned.”
Her statement confirms my suspicions about the complainant, but I mentally push those away to consider later.
“Why can’t I sleep at the office anymore?” I ask instead.
This stipulation truly baffles me. I can’t think of a single reason this should be a concern to anyone. Even my cat, Isaac, likely doesn’t care if I don’t come home every night. We have round-the-clock security at Chester, so it’s not as though I’m endangering myself .
“It’s, and I quote from the complaint, unprofessional .” Indeed, she makes air quotes as she emphasizes that particular word.
More suspicion piles in my brain.
“So, someone specific complained to HR about me?” I ask.
Her eyes widen, and she purses her lips. “Shit. I shouldn’t have said that.”
“Who thinks I’m behaving in an unprofessional manner?” This is not me simply being petty, planning a swift and just retribution. I’m fishing for more data to back up my hypothesis.
Carly shakes her head wildly. “All HR complaints are confidential.”
“I understand,” I say. Because I do. “Can you tell me why the complaints were filed? What specifically about my clothing and sleeping habits are causing undue distress on one of my coworkers?”
Carly glances to my open doorway before returning her attention to me with narrowed eyes. “Honestly? I think the guy’s just a miserable jerk who can’t stand for anyone else to be happy.”
All the people I work with are guys. She’s repeatedly used he as the pronoun for the complainant. It’s not an identifiable reveal. She still hasn’t named Peter specifically.
“What makes you say that?” I ask, continuing my fishing expedition.
She shrugs. “When I got engaged, everyone else in the office congratulated me. Except one person. I invited everyone to the party, and that same person was the only one who didn’t show up.”
Now this is identifiable information that I can use to my advantage.
All I have to do is somehow have a completely casual conversation about Carly’s engagement party with one of my coworkers in order to unmask my complainant’s identity .
It’s a risk. A big risk. If I’m flustered, there’s a very good chance I’ll reveal all my secrets.
Still, I must try. It’s been weeks. Chet has been very patient with me, but more designs have been sold, which endanger the progress of our research. He’s no closer in his own investigation than I am. If my complainant is using me as a scapegoat for his own guilt, then I must use any tactic necessary to discover his identity.
Sadly, this investigation must become more hands-on than a computer program.
“Anyway.” Carly stands, snapping me out of my internal musings. She brushes her hands harshly across her skirt as though she’s physically attempting to rid herself of this distasteful conversation. “I think it’s BS. Please don’t hate me,” Carly pleads, folding her hands in front of her face as though she’s praying to me.
“I don’t hate you,” I assure her. She’s been nothing but lovely and welcoming toward me. “Also, I will change my behaviors to be more professionally appropriate.”
“You’re the epitome of professional,” she insists. “It’s the miserable jerk who isn’t.”
I exit my office with her, careful to lock the door behind me.
Time to find out who the miserable jerk is.
“So, then I said, ‘Bait and switch? Don’t you mean bait and tackle?’”
I thought it might be easier to start small. Engaging with a single coworker instead of attempting to make fake friends with the entire department feels manageable.
Finley, one of the engineers on the R&D team, frowns at me. He’s a relatively attractive man in an archetypal sort of way. Average height—not too tall, not too short. Lustrous, thick brown hair with matching lustrous brown eyes. The mustache he wears is rather ridiculous, but at least it adds a somewhat interesting focal point to his otherwise average face. He’s neither overweight nor overly muscled. All in all, he’s just…pleasantly average. Except in his academic background. According to the files that Chet provided me with, Finley Mikkelsen is twenty-nine years old. He has advanced degrees in multiple fields of engineering that make him a perfect fit for a bioengineering R&D division. The man is clearly possessed of above average intelligence and work ethic.
This was a horrible idea. Horrible. I can’t even tell jokes that other people find amusing. How am I supposed to disarm an intelligent coworker enough to uncover a complainant/traitor’s identity?
In a blatantly desperate attempt to right this sinking ship, I make a show of leaning my elbow against the breakroom counter. It’s an awkward position, but one that pushes my cleavage together in an impossible-not-to-notice way.
If I’ve been cursed with these noticeable assets, then at least I finally have a valid reason to use them to my advantage.
I hate that I’ve become this woman. Hate it so much.
Finley doesn’t even glance down. “Do you like fishing?”
“Not particularly,” I admit.
He squints.
“Oh, that reminds me,” I try to purr in the seductive way that I’ve heard and seen other women do. It comes out more like a snarl.
He takes a step back, his eyes widening.
Damn it. I’m losing him.
I rest my chin on my hand then cross my other arm over to the countertop. The doubly awkward movement does a fantastic job of making my breasts look even more pronounced. Like a corset almost.
Thankfully, poor Finley falls for the awkward bait. He offers me a smile. “Reminds you of what?”
Too bad about I’m to pull the switch. “I was thinking of throwing a housewarming party now that I’ve gotten my apartment settled. Carly warned me that one of our teammates doesn’t like parties. I don’t want to offend anyone.”
Finley pulls his lower lip between his teeth, his brow furrowing as he blatantly stares at my chest. He glances at my face briefly before asking, “I’m not following.”
Stupid brain gets added to my stupid list. It thinks far faster than my mouth tends to be able to keep up.
I sigh and start over. “Carly was telling me about her engagement party, and that only one of our coworkers didn’t attend. I assume because this person doesn’t enjoy parties. I don’t want to make anyone feel uncomfortable by extending an invitation that they wouldn’t appreciate.”
In truth, I would rather swallow rusty nails than throw a party at my apartment. Unfortunately, I can’t back down now. If I’d had more time to prepare this counteroffensive, then I might have been able to come up with a better segue into learning the identity of my complainant. Alas. I foolishly allowed myself to get caught up in the excitement of potentially unmasking the traitor.
This is yet another reason that emotions should be suppressed in favor of logic.
Now, I will have to throw a party that I do not want at my apartment that is not remotely settled.
Finley opens his mouth then snaps it shut when a voice booms out, “What in the actual fuck is going on in here?”
As well-trained soldiers of competitive academia, Finley and I leap apart, straightening our spines and preparing to face a firing squad. Just like in the good ole days when we defended our theses to obtain our PhDs.
We are not being excoriated by an advisory board.
Dr. Peter Carrington stands in the doorway, snarling like a beast, his chest rising and falling in a visible show of very real rage, unlike my manufactured attempts at flirting.
“Here’s the asshole now,” Finley mutters.
I cut a sideways glance at him.
Is he identifying Peter as the only coworker who didn’t attend Carly’s engagement party?
Peter stomps toward us so dramatically that I’m tempted to laugh.
Another unfortunate side effect of my wildly mismatched brain quotients. Uncomfortable situations make me laugh. I once laughed at my great-aunt’s funeral when I was forced to view her embalmed body up close. Probably explains why most of my family refuses to speak to me anymore.
Peter sneers at Finley. “Did I seriously just walk in this room to find you staring at her chest, or did I hallucinate that?”
Finley’s eyes widen as his face pales. “I, uh, no. I wasn’t doing that.”
“Really.” It’s a questioning word, but Peter says it as a statement.
Oh, no. I’ve gotten Finley in trouble. I can’t win over a potential ally in my silent war if he hates me for getting him in hot water with our boss. Who’s likely a traitor among our ranks.
“It’s okay,” I whisper.
Peter raises his eyebrows. “No. It’s not. You’re a fellow engineer on this team, not a blow-up doll to be used for enjoyment when someone gets bored during the workday.”
My mouth falls open in absolute, utter shock. These are not the sort of words I expect from a man like Dr. Peter Carrington.
Finley takes another step away from me. “I wasn’t. I swear I wasn’t using her.” He winces, then tries again, “I was just heating up my lunch! She came in and told me a joke. I honestly forgot she even worked here. No one’s seen her in a month!”
I frown at his explanation. But then remember that I’ve been avoiding everyone. I’ve apparently done a very good job.
Not good enough for someone not to file an HR complaint against me though.
Joel strides into the room, whistling.
It’s enough of a distraction to ease the tension a little.
He’s yet another stereotypically yet utterly average male on the social attractiveness scale. His features sort of blur together in a canvas of similar coloring. Golden skin, golden tightly coiled hair, golden eyes. Honestly, he resembles a life-sized Oscar statue. His personality is anything but statuesque though. From our first meeting, I identified him as the ringleader of the R&D team. Apart from Peter, of course.
“Hey!” Joel’s already golden face brightens when he sees me, now huddling in the corner like a wayward schoolgirl who’s been reprimanded for reading the lesson too fast. “You’re still here! I thought you’d quit!”
I furrow my brow. If most of our coworkers assumed I’d quit, then that’s just more evidence to bolster the hypothesis that Peter is my complainant.
“It’s Wednesday,” Joel says as he pops his lunch into the microwave. “You should come to happy hour with us. It’s an R&D department tradition.”
“Oh, uh, thank you, no,” I stammer. I try to step back and physically distance myself from his invitation, but I’m already wedged in the corner of the countertop. “I…have so much work to do. Really though. Thank you so much for the offer.”
“Elise!” Another engineer by the name of Kevin surprises me by calling my name as he walks in. They’re all carbon copies of physical averageness with degrees that prove their brains are anything but. “You’re still with us!”
My face scrunches in further confusion. This entire situation is nonsensical. I hate the nonsensical.
“Are you coming to happy hour tonight?” Kevin with his brown hair, brown eyes, pale skin and slightly rotund belly asks as he pulls a salad out of the fridge.
I’m too shocked to say anything in response.
I’m further shocked when Peter suddenly crosses the room to stand beside me. He leans down to whisper, “If you want to go, then you should. I know you’ve only been avoiding everyone because of me. I won’t go tonight.”
He’s not wrong. I have been avoiding everyone because of him. Because I no longer trust anyone who I would have previously, naively viewed as a peer.
I hate that Peter has this kind of power over me. That he was my teacher for a lesson that I thought I’d already learned. He tested me, and I failed.
I want him to be absolutely nothing in the grand scheme of my life.
And yet here I am, secretly investigating him for corporate espionage as his warm breath sends goosebumps skittering along my skin.
I haven’t quite forgotten how totally and easily this man can render me stupid.
A fourth, fifth, sixth engineer meanders into the room.
Damn it. It’s lunch hour.
My emotions are running hot, slowly leaking out of their mental box. I can’t quite catch my breath or find enough balance to formulate a new plan of attack. This is madness. Inside my head and out of it.
But instead of tucking tail to preserve myself to fight another battle on an easier day, I give in to one of my burning curiosities and address them at large. “Show of hands. How many of you thought I wasn’t working here anymore?”
They all raise their hands.
“Seriously?” I mutter.
The R&D department admin, Oscar, shrugs as he takes a seat at the table. He, at least, is an aberration among the sea of average males. He has neither advanced degrees nor an endless wardrobe of short-sleeved dress shirts and cheap business slacks. His endlessly changing wardrobe is far more stylish than even Maeve’s. “We never see you anymore.”
I breathe a sigh of relief, but only a small one. At least I’m managing to do one thing right. Avoiding people is the only thing I’m good at.
“Chet promised me a private office when he made me the job offer,” I explain, creasing then smoothing the material of my skirt near my thigh. “I—I need total quiet to work. He knows that about me.”
Peter’s still at my side. I feel his gaze heavy on me though I don’t glance in his direction. Where I once felt small and protected by his towering stature, now I feel caged and coerced into sharing the intimate details of my person.
I expect my coworkers to bristle or at least to make fun of my admission.
I receive neither.
Finley nods like he gets it. “I need noise to work. If it’s too quiet, I swear I can hear the echo inside my empty brain.”
They all laugh.
I don’t. How could Finley possibly have an empty brain and manage to get a PhD in addition to several master’s degrees?
“So, happy hour tonight?” Joel asks again. “You’ve been here for a month, and we barely know anything about you.”
“Um…” I whisper, my throat closing up. My fingers slide ha rsher against the silk at my thigh, my nails catching on the delicate fabric.
I don’t want them to know anything about me. I’m not going to make the same mistake twice. Or inadvertently reveal that I’ve spent the past few weeks investigating them. Especially the towering, glowering man beside me.
“Is green your favorite color?” Joel asks.
I blink at him. That’s an odd, sudden question.
Oscar lifts his chin in my direction with a smirk. “Nice blouse.”
I glance down at the stupid emerald shirt that’s caused me so much trouble.
“No,” Peter states with harsh emphasis on only that single syllable. “You will not remark on her clothes or anything about her appearance.” He mutters, “Jesus Christ, how many times do I have to go over this?”
My gaze jerks upward to his stormy expression.
“Did you report me to HR?” I blurt.
His head cocks back on his neck before he slowly swivels his gaze to me. “Someone reported you to HR? For what?”
I’m tempted to offer him a slow round of applause for his award-worthy acting.
Instead, I gesture at my blouse. “For the way I dress. Apparently, I’m being unprofessional. Also, for sleeping on the couch in my office some nights. You know. Like a floozy.”
A few of the guys seated at the table spontaneously choke on air.
“All right.” Peter crosses his arms as he glares at the lunch group. “Which one of you did it? What did I tell you about hazing the new hire in the building?”
“It wasn’t any of us,” Finley insists as the others shake their heads .
“We swear,” Kevin adds. “It wasn’t! We thought she quit because of you.”
“Fucking hell,” Peter mutters as he drags a hand through his hair, messing up the previously perfect style. He turns toward me with another frown. His eyes threaten to bore through me with the intensity behind his gaze. “I’ll get to the bottom of this. I promise.”
With that, he strides out of the room.
He sounded so genuinely distraught on my behalf. How does he lie so well? Why doesn’t his perfect bone structure crack from the stress of it all?
“That really sucks about the HR complaint,” Joel offers. “We’ll put out some feelers in the building. See if we can figure out who the asshole is.”
“I thought Peter was the exacting asshole in the building?” I use his own terminology from our disastrous introduction.
They all laugh.
I’m not joking.
“Seriously.” Oscar shakes his head. “Come to the bar with us tonight. You must have so many stories about Pete since you two went to grad school together.”
“I certainly do,” I admit.
None of them are good.