Chapter 7 Bash
Chapter seven
Bash
The second hand on the wall clock creeps forward, marking the end of my first day at Titan Marketing Group.
I lean back in my chair and let out a long breath.
Through the thin wall separating our offices, I hear Charlotte's keyboard clicking away.
She hasn't spoken a word to me since our morning introduction, unless you count the painfully formal email with the Apex files attached.
I pull out my phone and dial Tyler.
"Well?" he answers on the second ring. "Did you grovel appropriately?"
"She hates me." I rub my temple where a headache has been brewing all afternoon. "Won't even let me call her Charlie. It's 'Charlotte' now, delivered with ice in her voice."
"Damn. Did you at least apologize like I told you to?"
I stand up, pacing the small office. "I tried. Multiple times. She cut me off every single time. She's giving me the cold shoulder to end all cold shoulders."
"Cold soldier," Tyler corrects automatically.
"What?"
"It's cold soldier. You know, standing at attention, all rigid and—"
"It's definitely cold shoulder, genius."
"Pretty sure it's not."
"Whatever." I glance toward the wall connecting our offices.
"The point is, she won't let me get a word in. Everything’s been brutally professional.
I tried to catch her at lunch, but she vanished.
Then in the department meeting, she sat across the room and only addressed me when the VP specifically asked for her input on the Apex timeline and had to include me. "
"Ouch," he says, and I can hear the amusement in his voice. "The lady's got pride. I like her style."
"Yeah, well, I—" A knock at my door makes me pause. "Hold on. Someone's here."
I lower the phone and see Amelia opening the door.
"Got to go," I whisper into the phone before hanging up.
She strides into my office, her silver-streaked bob and impeccable posture radiating the kind of authority that doesn't need to be announced. Her bright red lipstick matches her pantsuit.
"Sebastian," she says, tapping a folder against her palm. "How's your first day treating you? Get everything you needed from Charlotte?"
"Great, thanks." I gesture to my computer screen where Charlotte's files are open. "Yeah, she sent everything over earlier this morning and I'm just finishing up going through everything. Comprehensive stuff."
"She's one of our best." She opens the folder. "We're thrilled to have you join the team. Your experience with Altitude will bring a fresh perspective to our athletics accounts."
"That's the plan." I offer what I hope is a confident smile.
"Any particular ideas brewing already?" She raises an eyebrow, curious but not demanding.
I nod, grateful for the chance to talk business instead of my personal disaster. "A few. Apex's winter line could benefit from some strategic ambassador partnerships. Not just with the top competitors, but with up-and-comers who have a strong social media presence."
"I like that." Amelia nods approvingly. "Charlotte mentioned something similar in her initial proposal. You two seem to be on the same wavelength."
If only she knew.
"Any holiday plans?" She asks. "This town can be quite festive this time of year."
"Not really. Just trying to get settled into my new townhome." I gesture vaguely. "Boxes everywhere still."
"Well, don't work too late tonight. First days are always exhausting." She straightens up. "See you tomorrow."
"Looking forward to it."
As she leaves, I catch movement through the open door and see Charlie walk past. Perfect timing. I quickly save my work, shut down my system, and grab my jacket. By the time I make it to the hallway, she's already heading toward the elevators.
"Charlotte, wait up," I call, jogging a few steps to catch her.
She doesn't slow down, just reaches the elevator and presses the button. The doors open immediately—of course they do—and she steps inside. I slide in just before they close, leaving us alone in the small space.
The tension is immediate and thick. She stands perfectly still, eyes fixed on the illuminated floor number above the door. Her posture is rigid, and I catch the faint scent of her perfume, the same one from Saturday night.
My throat suddenly feels dry. This woman has seen me naked, has whispered things in my ear that would make the HR department spontaneously combust, and now she won't even look at me.
"So," I try, aiming for casual, "first day survival accomplished. No major disasters. Though I did get lost trying to find the supply closet and ended up in accounting."
Nothing. Not even a twitch of her lips.
The elevator descends with excruciating slowness.
"The coffee here is surprisingly decent," I continue, desperate to break through.
Her head turns, hazel eyes meeting mine. They're not warm like Saturday night. They're sharp and assessing. She looks at me like I'm a particularly challenging spreadsheet.
"Have a good evening, Sebastian." Her voice is measured, professional, and completely devoid of emotion.
The elevator doors open to the lobby, and she walks out without a backward glance. I follow a few steps behind, watching as she nods to the security guard and pushes through the revolving door into the chilly evening air.
I've royally fucked up.
In my car, I sit for a moment before starting the engine. The parking garage is mostly empty now. I watch as Charlotte gets into a silver Audi and pulls out of her parking space.
I rest my forehead against the steering wheel. What did I expect? That she'd fall into my arms, forgive me for sneaking out without a word? That we'd laugh off the coincidence of ending up as colleagues?
The truth is, I don't know what I expected. I just know I didn't expect to feel this hollow watching her walk away.
My phone buzzes.
Survived day one or do I need to organize a funeral?
Ty
Survived. Barely.
Meet for a beer?
Usual place in 20.
Ty
"You should have seen her face," I tell Tyler thirty minutes later, nursing my second beer at The Watering Hole.
The dim lighting and worn leather booths of our usual spot feel familiar, comforting after the sterile corporate atmosphere I've been navigating all day.
"Like I was something she scraped off her shoe and couldn't wait to dispose of. "
Tyler leans back in the booth, clearly amused by my predicament.
He's got that knowing smirk that's been irritating me since college.
The one that says he saw this disaster coming from a mile away.
"Can you blame her? You slept with her and ghosted.
Now you're invading her workplace like some kind of corporate stalker. "
"I didn't ghost," I protest, though the words sound weak even to my own ears. "It was a one-night stand. People leave after one-night stands. That's literally the definition."
"Sometimes people leave notes after one-night stands they actually like," Tyler counters, gesturing with his beer bottle for emphasis. "You left like she had bedbugs or the plague. Hell, like the building was on fire."
I wince at his bluntness, but he's not wrong. "It wasn't like that."
"Then what was it like?" He settles back, clearly prepared to hear the full confession. This is Tyler in therapist mode being patient, persistent, and annoyingly perceptive.
I take a long pull of my beer, the bitter taste mixing with the memory of that morning.
I can still remember how it felt waking up next to her.
The way the early morning sunlight streamed through her bedroom window, catching in her auburn hair and making it glow like burnished copper.
The peaceful expression on her face was so different from the guarded, defensive looks she'd been shooting me all day at work.
In sleep, all her walls were down, and I could see the woman who'd laughed at my terrible jokes and traced patterns on my chest while we talked until three in the morning.
"I panicked," I admit finally, the words scraping against my throat. "I woke up, and she was there next to me, and I just... it felt too good. Too right. Like I could wake up like that every morning for the rest of my life."
Tyler stares at me for a long moment, his eyebrows climbing toward his hairline. "So naturally, you ran away like a scared teenager."
"I moved to town for a job. My life was completely up in the air." I pick at the damp label on my beer bottle, peeling off small strips. "It didn't seem like the time to start something serious with someone I'd just met."
"And then boom plot twist worthy of a bad romcom, she's your coworker."
"Not just any coworker." The irony isn't lost on me, and I can't keep the frustration out of my voice.
"She's the one I'm supposed to collaborate with on all the major accounts.
Amelia's got us working side by side for the foreseeable future.
Partnership meetings, client presentations, strategy sessions. The works."
He whistles low, shaking his head. "The universe has a sick sense of humor, my friend."
"Tell me about it." I drain the last of my beer. "So what do I do? How do I fix this?"
"The way I see it, you've got two options.
" He counts them off on his fingers, ever the pragmatist. "One: maintain professional distance, do your job well, and accept that you royally messed up a potentially good thing.
Chalk it up to experience and move on. Two: find a way to genuinely apologize and see if she's willing to start fresh, either as colleagues or something more. "
"She won't even let me apologize," I say, remembering the way she'd cut me off every time I tried to approach the subject. "Every time I get close to bringing it up, she shuts me down or finds an excuse to leave."
"Then find another way dude. Women appreciate effort and sincerity, especially when you've screwed up this spectacularly.
" He signals the waitress for another round, raising two fingers.
"Plus, I'm pretty sure she wouldn't be this pissed if she didn't care.
Indifference is the opposite of love, not anger. "
I mull this over as fresh beers arrive. Tyler might have a point.
He usually does, annoyingly enough. If Charlie truly didn't care about what happened between us, she'd probably be politely indifferent, maybe even professionally friendly.
This ice queen act, the careful distance, the way her jaw tightens every time I walked into the same room, it all suggests I got under her skin in a way that goes deeper than simple irritation.
"So what's your move?" Tyler asks.
I think about her face in the elevator, closed off and defensive.
I think about her in my arms on the dance floor, the way she looked at me in her apartment when I had her against the wall and she kissed me back, the feel of her skin against mine, remembering the taste of her and how easily I made her come apart multiple times.
"I need to find a way to talk to her," I decide. "Really talk to her. Not just an 'I'm sorry' in passing."
"That's my boy." He grins. "Though fair warning, she seems like the type who might make you work for it."
"Good thing I like a challenge." I clink my bottle against his. "Always have."
"True." Tyler's expression turns serious. "Just make sure you know what you're after here, Bash. If it's just about smoothing things over to make work comfortable, that's one thing. But if it's more..."
He doesn't finish the thought, but he doesn't need to. The question hangs between us. What am I really after with this woman?
I didn't come to this job looking for anything but a fresh professional start. A way to translate my sports career into something sustainable. Romance wasn't on the agenda.
But then again, neither was waking up beside a woman who made me want to stay.
"I just need to clear the air," I say finally. "Make things right."
Tyler gives me a look that says he doesn't quite believe me, but he lets it drop. "So what's your strategy, Mr. Sports Marketing Man? How would you pitch this apology campaign?"
I laugh despite myself. "I haven't figured that out yet. But I will."
Later, as I drive back to my half-unpacked townhouse, I can't stop replaying the day in my mind.
The shocked look on Charlie's face when Amelia introduced us.
The way she maintained perfect composure while I felt like the ground was shifting beneath my feet.
The crisp, professional emails. The way she called me "Sebastian" with just enough formality to create distance.
I open my front door and I'm surrounded by moving boxes and furniture that hasn't found its place yet. It strikes me that my life is in transition in more ways than one. New job. New home. And now, unexpectedly, a new complication in the form of a gorgeous woman named Charlotte Whitaker.
Tomorrow will be day two. And somehow, I need to find a way to break through those walls she's built overnight.
Because the truth is, I didn't just leave her apartment because I panicked about feelings.
I left because for the first time in years, I could see myself wanting something real.
Something that lasted beyond a night or a weekend.
Something that scared the hell out of me.
Something that actually took me out of my comfort zone.
I toss my keys on the counter and drop onto my still-wrapped-with-plastic couch, staring at the ceiling.
Truth is, I've never had this problem before.
My whole adult life has been lived out of suitcases and temporary rentals.
First following the competition circuit, then after the accident, the consulting gigs that kept me on the road.
"I'm only in town for the weekend" wasn't just a line; it was my reality.
Women knew exactly what they were getting with me.
No promises, no expectations, just good times with clear expiration dates.
They'd get the charming snowboarder with the wicked grin who'd be gone before things got complicated.
I didn't get attached because I couldn't. The mountains were always calling.
But now? I've signed a lease. Bought furniture. Committed to staying put.
And then there's Charlie. She got under my skin in ways no one ever has. The way she challenged me, matched my banter, saw through my bullshit. It was different. Magnetic.
I rub my hands over my face, frustrated. This isn't me. I don't chase women who clearly want nothing to do with me. I don't overthink exits. I definitely don't sign up for the kind of mess I've created.
Yet here I am, plotting ways to get her to talk to me again.