Chapter 17
17
Darkness is the absence of light. Cold is the absence of heat. The laws of physics that explain these phenomena are actually quite complex and difficult for most people to fully comprehend. Based on my understanding of these concepts and the only measurable data I can obtain, I am left with a relatively conclusive hypothesis.
Polite, professional civility is the absence of Peter’s affection.
The measurable data are as follows—yesterday morning when I absolutely had to return to my own apartment, Peter wrapped me in his arms then kissed me. On the cheek.
The gesture was warm, yet it made me feel empty and wanting.
Sir Isaac is also very disappointed to return to our lonely apartment.
Further, I awoke in my own empty bed, bereft of Peter’s warmth and strong arms around me.
Now that we have all been cleared to return to work at Chester, he is back to addressing me as Dr. Fowler.
Currently, he is ignoring me in the breakroom even as he engages in conversation with our coworkers .
I never would have imagined that I could hate being treated with professional respect. But I do. I hate it very, very much.
“I’m still not back to one-hundred percent,” Joel laments in between sipping from a Styrofoam cup of soup. That’s so unhealthy. “I almost forgot to prep my samples before taking them into the lab.”
Oscar shakes his head. “I almost caught the microwave on fire yesterday. I thought I set it for two minutes, so I ran to answer a call. The call took longer than expected. When I got back to the breakroom, the microwave was still running and had three minutes left. My Lean Cuisine was a smoldering blob of burned cardboard when I took it out.”
“Huh.” Peter glances behind him at the microwave. “I just thought that burnt scent I can’t get out of my nose was a leftover flu symptom. I’ll see if we have extra funds in the budget for a new microwave.”
I stare at the untouched salad in front of me, grateful I rarely use the microwave.
“Lunch is on me tomorrow,” I offer. “We can order from anywhere you want.”
“Can we keep you?” Finley mocks batting his eyelashes at me in a feminine way.
“I am employed here,” I answer. “So, yes.”
A surprisingly robust conversation ensues about which is the best restaurant to order from that won’t botch the delivery.
Peter does not join in. He turns his back to everyone and pours himself a fresh cup of coffee. As he replaces the pot in the stand, his phone rings. He fishes it out of his pocket, frowns at the screen, then mutters, “Fucking finally.”
The group watches in silence as he brings his cell to his ear with one hand, snatches his mug too quickly off the counter with the other and proceeds to spill coffee all over the floor.
He ignores the likely scalding burn to his skin in favor of shouting at whoever’s on the other side of the call. “What do you mean, you don’t have it yet? Your company builds these multi-million-dollar machines. You know damn well it can’t be offline for more than a few days without having to be fully replaced.”
He strides out of the breakroom during a pause on his end.
We all hear him yell from the hallway, “I already paid for the goddamn part, so do your fucking job and ship it!”
Joel blows out a breath. “Pete’s a decent guy beneath his asshole boss exterior, but I swear to God—if he doesn’t get laid soon, he’s going to have an aneurysm.”
A rousing argument ensues about what will happen if he doesn’t get laid soon.
I tilt my head to the side and squint at the air in front of me, contemplating the linguistic semantics of that familiar phrase.
Perhaps this assumption only reaches legitimacy if both parties exert equal laying force upon one another. Must both parties orgasm for it to be true? Or do they assume Peter would behave in a more relaxed way if he received an orgasm without providing one in return?
I’m about to inquire about the necessary set of circumstances required to achieve the desired goal, but I do not get the chance.
“Oh, come on!” Maeve yells, gesturing at the pool of coffee on the floor. “Who the hell did this and didn’t bother to clean it up? Let me guess—Pete.”
“Uh, nope,” Oscar says, quickly rising from his chair. “That was me. My bad. I’m going to clean it up right now.”
Maeve’s eyes narrow as she glances between Oscar’s obviously full cup of coffee on the table and the puddle of cold brown liquid on the floor. “Why are you covering for that asshole?”
Oscar attempts to distract Maeve’s anger by tearing a wad of paper towels off the roll then blotting up the spill .
She is not an easy to distract woman, apparently.
“I don’t get you guys. He’s an asshole to you, too. Why do you constantly defend him?” she asks the rest of the group sitting at the table.
“Uh, no,” Joel says carefully. “He’s an asshole in general, but he’s not an asshole to us. Mostly,” he mumbles the last part under his breath.
I face Maeve with what I hope is an open, curious expression before asking, “Why do you dislike Peter so much?”
She gestures at the floor that Oscar’s still cleaning like it should be obvious.
“I’ll agree that was inconsiderate, lazy behavior,” I admit. “You should know he was in the middle of what sounded like an important phone call when it happened. He likely would have returned to clean the spill after his conversation was completed.”
She rolls her eyes before stepping over Oscar to pour her own cup of coffee, which she does not spill. “He does this kind of stuff all the time. And no, he doesn’t come back to clean up his own messes. He assumes we’ll do it. He lords over the office like he thinks he’s some kind of infallible emperor and treats the rest of us like his hired help.”
I would guess that Maeve is jealous of Peter’s position, but she’s a member of the marketing department. That’s an unfair comparison. The familiar apples to oranges.
“Or could it be…” Finley taps his chin like he’s pretending to think about it. “That you’re just mad because he’s refused your offers for a date? Multiple times.”
My eyes widen, and I stare at Maeve with a fresh perspective.
She rolls her eyes. “You guys are just jealous that I didn’t hit you up for your phone numbers. Besides, that was months ago. I’m totally over it.”
The men at the table exchange glances that imply they do not believe her words. Considering that she had Peter cornered in my kitchen at my housewarming party, I’m also not convinced that she’s over it.
That unjustified yet wholly burning jealousy flares to life in my chest again.
“So, you don’t care that he’s going on a hot date tonight, then, right?” Joel asks.
I stare at Joel. My mind instantly paints a very vivid picture of the way Peter smiles when on a date, how he dresses just a little nicer, the fall of his hair when he spends the time to style it. I hear the sound of his laughter, feel the callouses of his hand when he reaches across the table.
Reaching for someone who isn’t me.
“What do you think, Elise?”
I startle out of my mental spiral to find all the guys at the table staring at me while Maeve glares at everyone.
“I’m sorry. What?”
“Do you have any single friends you could set Pete up with?” Finley obviously repeats himself. “In case tonight’s date is a bust?”
I have no idea how to appropriately respond to that.
I don’t have any friends?
I would rather swallow radioactive unfiled sheet metal?
Who is Peter going on a date with tonight?
Chet believes that one of you are selling trade secrets to the highest bidder?
Truly, anything I say will be a nuclear meltdown in the making.
I gape at them, opening and closing my mouth in such rapid success that dizziness washes over me.
Rather than incriminate myself or blow my cover, I rise from my chair, awkwardly throwing the contents of my lunch back into the bag. “I will think on it and get back to you. ”
That catchphrase has saved my weirdo ass so many times.
I march directly into Peter’s office to find him hunched over his desk with his arms wrapped around his head. I have a feeling that I’m overstepping the invisible bounds of our professional non-relationship, but I also want answers.
“You have a date tonight.” I mean it as a question, but it comes out as a statement.
“Where do you want to go?” Peter mumbles without glancing up from his hidden position.
“Not with me,” I clarify before sitting.
That gets his attention. He slowly reveals his face with squinted eyes and a confused expression. “What?”
“Joel has set you up with a date for tonight,” I explain. I have no further information to share. I panicked instead of asking questions.
Peter blinks at me. “What?”
“Your employees feel that you need to get laid,” I inform him. “Because you are an exacting asshole. According to them, sex will cure your sometimes churlish behavior.”
Peter shakes his head, opens his mouth, closes it, shakes his head again, swallows thickly. He finally grinds out from between clenched teeth, “We can’t discuss this here. We’re at work.”
“I understand.” I truly do. I rise to take my leave, then also add, “I also find it unprofessional that our coworkers wish for you to receive an orgasm sooner than later. They seem to have a disturbing fixation on your sex life.”
I stumble over the chair instead of simply walking around it like a normal person. By the time I regain my balance, Peter’s blocking my path, hands on his hips, nostrils flared, breathing heavily. The muscle in his jaw ticks in that annoying way.
“My control is hanging by a thread, Dr. Fowler.”
I nod and attempt to sidestep him. “I understand. Enjoy your date, Dr. Carrington. ”
He cranes his neck to glare at the ceiling before muttering, “Fuck it.”
In the next second, he slams his office door closed and pulls me against him. He cups the back of my head with a sure grasp before crushing his mouth to mine.
I do not have to vividly remember the sounds of his pleasure. He’s making them now as he licks inside my mouth—groans and rumbles and male moans and audible input that my brain translates as arousal. Memories of the taste and texture of his tongue merge with the present overwhelming experience of him.
I clutch the lapels of his jacket, my lunch falling to the floor in my haste to remain upright. A fresh wave of dizziness overtakes me, and my knees threaten to crumble from a heady combination of desire, possession, and relief.
So much relief.
I exhale the past year of shuttered emotions into him. He swallows them down like a starving man, eager for even the worst I have to offer.
He threads his fingers through my hair and tilts my head, intent on devouring me before abruptly pulling away.
I lurch forward into thin air, but he steadies me with sure hands on my forearms—even as he holds me at a distance.
“We can’t do this here,” he insists, breathless.
I glance down to discover that men’s dress slacks offer very little in the way of concealment.
He winces as he follows my gaze. “I’m not going to be able to leave my office for the rest of the day.”
That knowledge sounds like it truly pains him.
He reaches past me to open the door again, leaning down to whisper, “For the record—to make my intentions crystal-clear—I will not be going on any dates that aren’t with you.”
I stare at his tortured expression, cataloguing the slight swelling of his lips, the flush of his cheeks, the way his hair is out of place. “They were quite insistent.”
“I’ll get out of it,” he promises. “Been doing it for a while now.”
I open my mouth to inquire about a similar situation with Maeve but, at the sound of approaching voices in the hallway, Peter steps away from me and smooths his tie.
He speaks in a louder voice, “The SEM will be out of operation for another two days. I apologize for the inconvenience, Dr. Fowler.”
At his encouraging nod, I admit, “I am very inconvenienced, Dr. Carrington. Very inconvenienced indeed. Perhaps you could put a little more effort into doing your job. Well.”
He frowns at me and mouths, “Too much” before retreating behind the cover of his desk.
I agree. Unfortunately, the too much was Peter making a pathetic excuse about our private conversation that revolves around a piece of lab equipment that isn’t remotely part of my daily duties here.