Chapter 11
11
The human mind fascinates me. Not simply because I don’t understand the way the majority of people’s minds work. More for the fact that homo sapiens sapiens brains are elegant systems that modern technology still can’t replicate.
For example, I’m currently staring at the computer screen in my office. My eyes absorb the spectrum of light and objects in front of me. My brain has learned to comprehend all these things as useful information, but my brain is also being a little bitch today.
I’m getting dual images, and not because I’m seeing double.
No.
My stupid, awful, horrid, perverse brain keeps flashing an image of Peter asleep in my bed yesterday morning. His hair a wild mess that shines golden brown from the sunlight streaming in through the blinds. No muscles twitching in the morning while sound asleep, nope. In spite of the absence of motion, his chiseled body is obvious because I have my arm wrapped around his waist and my leg thrown over his thigh.
I used him for a body pillow all right. Somehow, I fell asleep, and we reverted to the same position we used to sleep in together. Him on his back. Me wrapped around him like a clinging vine.
I’m still so disgusted with myself for giving in so easily even though I did it unconsciously.
Sight isn’t the only operating system on the fritz today.
Though my office is peaceful and silent, I continue to hear Peter’s raspy, sleep-laced words as he awoke. Because I woke him up when I jerked my body away from him.
“Ten more minutes, babe. Then, I’ll have you for breakfast.”
The motherboard processor inside my skull can’t translate those words in any coherent manner. Does not compute. Foreign language detected .
I hightailed my butt out of the room and kept myself busy for the rest of the morning by making breakfast for my overnight guests, who woke up much more sluggish and bleary-eyed than me.
By the time Peter emerged from my bedroom, he looked as perfectly put together as always.
When Joel questioned where he’d slept last night, Peter thumbed over his shoulder down the hallway. “In her office. On the floor.”
I don’t have a home office. I have a one-bedroom apartment.
No one seemed to notice yet another lie from Peter’s lips.
I’ve been having an anxiety attack for the past twenty-four hours, wondering if my coworkers suspect that Peter slept in my bed. Did any of them creep in while we were unconscious and take pictures of us? Will they hold that over my head as leverage against my friendship with Chet? Did they point and laugh that Peter’s arm was also wrapped around my shoulders, his fingers tangled in my hair? Did they notice the rather sizeable bulge at his crotch? I did. It was definitely on the list of things I was aware of when I woke up .
I shake my head to dislodge the images and sounds that I don’t have time to focus on right now.
Chet will be calling for another update at the end of the week. I have nothing. Not even a single clue. Following the proverbial paper trail is getting me nowhere.
Deciding my brain needs a break, I emerge from my office only to find the hallways deserted.
I check my watch.
It’s nearly eight at night.
The building is empty because everyone else went home.
Have they been avoiding me all day, or did I simply not notice anyone come into my office because my brain wasn’t operating properly?
Either seems a perfectly plausible option.
Ah, well. Perhaps this is a golden opportunity. I wander through the rest of the office to be certain it is truly deserted. If someone discovers me sorting through the contents of anyone’s desk, I’ll never be able to lie well enough to hide my intent.
The lab is empty. The restrooms—even the men’s room—are clear.
I check Peter’s office.
The door is open, and the lights are on, but no one except me seems to lock their door or care about energy conservation.
He’s still here. He’s not physically here—in this room—but he’s somewhere in the building. His messenger bag sits on the floor beside his desk. His coat hangs on a hook near the doorway.
After glancing out into the empty hallway, I approach his coat first. It’s cool to the touch, so he didn’t return to the office recently for some forgotten item. In a burst of instinct that I don’t attempt to dissect too much, I lean forward and bury my face in the fabric, deeply inhaling Peter’s mouthwatering scent.
A deep sense of calm blankets me. An odd response to the stimulus, considering this man cut me deeper than so many who similarly betrayed me before him.
There are multiple reasons that Peter was able to get so close to me. Many things that were attractive about him and checked all my personal boxes.
I appreciate the efficient organization of his desk. No stray papers littering the surface, everything in its right place. Not even a random pen outside of the cup situated next to his multiple screens.
I wiggle the wireless mouse on the desk surface to wake up his system. Everything is locked and pass protected, so he hasn’t been here for at least two minutes. Assuming that’s how long he has his computers set to automatically sleep after inactivity.
This is a red-flag behavior. Peter may be the director of Chester R&D, but if he’s alone in the office so late at night, there must be a reason why.
I set off to find him. The common phrase “I found it in the last place I looked” has always baffled me. Of course, it was the last place. Who would continue to search for an item that they’d already found?
And so, I find Peter. Not only in the last place I look, but also in the least expected place.
He’s in the supply room, a pen clenched between his teeth as his fingers move deftly through a stack of hermetically sealed X-ray plates.
Since he’s standing on the top rung of a step ladder, I clear my throat so as not to startle him and cause him to fall.
He holds up a finger to indicate I should wait a moment before speaking then pulls a clipboard off another shelf and writes something down on the paper.
“What are you doing?”
“Inventory,” he mutters as he moves to the next shelf and begins counting again. “Last Monday of every month. ”
I scrunch my nose in confusion. “Why? Shouldn’t that be Oscar’s job since he’s the admin for the department?”
Peter shakes his head though his gaze doesn’t swivel away from his task. “He’ll have the order forms on his desk and take care of them tomorrow morning.”
“That doesn’t answer my question.”
“Oscar isn’t an engineer. He’s an administrative assistant. He doesn’t know what half these items are to inventory them.”
“He could be taught,” I insist. “Then you wouldn’t have to stay late once a month.”
Peter raises his eyebrow though he doesn’t look at me. “Right. I would be revered as such an efficient leader if I forced Oscar to stay late once a month instead of doing it myself.”
“Why would you want to be revered?” I genuinely ask.
Peter sighs. “Is there something I can help you with? Why are you even still here? You’re not supposed to be sleeping at the office anymore.”
There’s a distinct yet unidentifiable tension in the room between us. One that puts me on edge more sharply than the prospect of snooping through my coworkers’ things all evening, which I obviously cannot admit to Peter.
I suppose it’s because that invasion of privacy has a purpose. If someone wasn’t breaching the trust of the company, then I wouldn’t have to breach their personal trust. The equation balances out.
Between Peter and me, there is zero balance.
Unenthusiastically, I pick up a second clipboard near the doorway. The list is straightforward, complete with required number of items to maintain adequate supply and a box to indicate how many orders should be placed to replenish the stock. I begin counting bottles of ammonium chloride.
“What are you doing? ”
“Helping you do inventory. Unlike Oscar, I know what all these items are,” I respond then resume my counting.
“You don’t need to do this.”
“It is not an entirely altruistic offer. I am ready to hear your explanation.”
Another sharp, unexplainable silence stifles the air.
Finally, Peter says, “I’m not built like you. I can’t count and carry on a heavy conversation.”
I’m well versed that most people aren’t built like me. It’s no one’s fault. Simply an it is what it is situation.
“Count now, explanation later,” I suggest.
“Dinner is off the table now?”
“No,” I mumble as I count boxes of alcohol wipes. “I’m hungry. We can go to dinner after this. I also have questions I would like to ask you.”
“I’d like that. Tonight then?”
“Tonight,” I agree.
We resume counting in silence though I still hear his words from yesterday morning on repeat in the background of my mind.