Chapter Twelve
T he next morning, I enter my bathroom to find a half-naked Rafe wearing nothing but a towel slung low on his hips. I scream. It’s not dignified. It’s the kind of scream where clueless girls in cut-offs wander into abandoned houses and are surprised when a masked man jumps out wielding a chef’s knife.
“Rafe!” I press my hand to my chest, my breath heaving in tatters. “What are you doing? You scared me half to death!”
He doesn’t react to my glass-shattering shriek, simply turning to me with his brows raised. Dark brown eyes regard me with the calm composure of a leopard.
“Using the shower. I liked it last night and have decided it hardly seems fair you’ve been hogging it.”
“This is my bathroom.” I point to the floor to illustrate my point. That wins me a derisive snort.
“It’s not yours any more than it’s mine. My back has been sore since we got here from sleeping on that stupid couch. The least you could do is share the good bathroom with me.”
He has a point, but I’m not about to admit it. After we talked about Hannah last night, it started raining again and we moved into the living room, where we stayed up late chatting while sharing another bottle of wine.
We told silly childhood stories, and he shared more about his mom and being an only child and how he played hockey in college until he hurt his knee. I tell him about my parents and my brother who works way too hard as a hedge fund manager.
It was far from the worst night I’ve ever spent with a man.
But he’s still Rafe, and he isn’t taking my bathroom.
He lifts his arm, and my entire body goes numb as I register what’s gripped in his hand.
“What is this thing?” He peers curiously at curved pink plastic adorned with shiny gold accents, all fitting far too neatly in the cradle of his large palm.
“Rafe! What is wrong with you?” I snatch my Lelo Sona 2 from his hand and hide it behind my back. “That is private. Why are you going through my things?”
“I wasn’t. It was just lying there. Almost like you used it last night.” He crosses his arms, biceps bulging as he leans a hip on the counter. My embarrassment deepens to a violent shade of crimson. “What does it do, Tris?”
That smile that knocked me senseless last night is so wide I’m surprised it can fit in the room. I should really be more careful about what I wish for.
I inhale a cleansing breath. I have nothing to be embarrassed about. I’m a grown woman, and last night, I needed to take the edge off. However, finding Rafe wearing nothing but a towel has negated every bit of that effort.
“It simulates oral sex,” I say, willing my voice to remain even. Rafe’s arms and stomach tighten, veins popping and muscles straining. His jaw tics, and he rolls his shoulders ever so slightly.
“Is that so?” His eyes drop to my hips for a fraction of a second, but I feel it straight through my soul. “How was it?”
Holy crap. Are we really talking about this? My skin bursts into fire.
“Better than any man I’ve been with,” I say, and shit, did I just insult him or myself?
His eyes sparkle with a gleam. “Maybe you’ve just been with the wrong men.”
I cock my hip and place a hand on it while looking him up and down.
“Maybe men are simply incapable of competing with a little machine,” I fire back.
Rafe’s smirk becomes the most devious, the most evil, the most Rafe I’ve ever seen. He drops his arms and steps forward, looking down at me from his lofty height.
“Is that a challenge, Trishara?” His voice is low and dangerous as his eyes rake over me, and my traitorous nipples harden into weapons-grade carbon.
I cross my arms, hoping he won’t notice, but I’m glass, and he sees right through it.
Eyes darkening, he steps closer, and my inner thighs tighten. He’s still glistening and wet, and a single drop of water is making its magnificent way down the center of his chest. All my coherent thoughts become a distant memory.
“Don’t pretend you mind me using your shower, Malik. I saw the way you were ogling me last night. Now you get to see me without my shirt again.” He flicks the tip of my nose with his thumb and forefinger, and I drop my arms with a sound of indignation.
“How dare you?” Now that he’s broken the smile threshold, it seems he can’t get enough. This one is half-cocked, and why does that make my stomach flip? He brushes past me, and I spin around, momentarily stunned by the wide span of his back and the top curve of his ass, just barely covered by the towel.
“I was staring because I couldn’t believe you weren’t burning to a crisp in the sun! Isn’t that what your kind does in the light of day?”
I’m rewarded with a glance over his shoulder, his devilish smirk hooking into my sternum. He chuckles darkly before disappearing into the second bathroom and slamming the door.
An hour later, I make my way down to the conference rooms for today’s session. According to the app, we’re discovering our personality types through a series of tests to determine our best avenues for communication, individual motivation, and learning. Then, we’ll divide into groups of contrasting types to solve problems using everyone’s strengths and weaknesses.
The rain has picked up, and a boom of supposedly rare Hawaiian thunder sets me on edge, meaning I’m already irritable when I arrive. I really hate storms.
We sit at long tables with our chairs lined up on one side, Lan to my left and, inexplicably, Rafe to my right. My plan is to pretend this morning’s conversation about my sex toy never happened, even if I can’t stop thinking about it. I just hope he plays along.
I also can’t stop replaying his question through my head.
Is that a challenge, Trishara?
However, it’s also distracting me from a flash of lightning streaking across the sky, so maybe I should be thanking him.
Whistle Mouth is back, and that shrill, piercing echo is even worse when it’s delivered indoors. I suspect it’s because of me and Rafe that she’s hanging on to her whistle at all times. I grind my teeth, still angry at how we were so unjustly disqualified. Rafe must harbor similar thoughts because I catch him staring at her like he wants to peel off her skin. I’m just glad his Terminator stare is turned on someone else for a change.
“Aren’t there some beings who live under a bridge you could sit with?” I ask as some guys that Rafe appears friendly with filter in. One of them calls his name, and Rafe tips his chin. “Ah, there they are now. In all their troll-like glory.”
Rafe’s eyebrow arches. “And your friends are the pinnacle of anti-trollness?”
I lean back and peek at Lan talking to Gabrielle.
“Of course, look at them. They’re adorable. We all are.”
Rafe smirks and then gives me one of those head-to-toe looks that does things I don’t want. “Yes, you are,” he says so low I almost don’t hear it before he turns to talk to one of the troll beings sitting on his other side.
I don’t possess the wherewithal to dwell on that statement before Whistle Mouth blows , destroying everyone’s eardrums and sending a collective flinch across the room.
“When is someone going to melt that thing down and choke her with it?” Lan whispers as Whistle Mouth hands out test papers.
“As soon as I get my hands on it,” I reply, and Lan covers her mouth to hold in her laugh.
Whistle Mouth cuts a sharp glance my way. Wow, she hates me. “Eyes on your own paper. This isn’t a test you can pass or fail. It’s simply meant to determine your learning type and what teamwork methods suit you best.”
She can claim this isn’t really a test, but everyone in the room knows this isn’t true. They’re looking for specific answers. Specific personalities to fill their hallowed corner office halls. Two members of the executive team sit in the corner, thumbs tapping on their phones. Two white men nearing retirement, here searching for their replacements.
Whistle Mouth blows again, and how is this compliant with health and safety standards? “You have one hour,” she says before a flurry of pencils begin scratching against paper backdropped by the increasing sounds of wind and rain outside.
My nerves twist as I stare out the window, but I tune it out, focusing on the task at hand.
Throughout the day, I learn a few things about myself, though most of it isn’t a surprise. I’m driven by my sense of competitiveness, enjoy strategizing for the future, and am an introvert. I study my assessment as I pick at my bottom lip. That last one makes sense. I’m comfortable when I’m with a group of people I know, but generally, I’m happy with my own company.
Seeing my competition score strikes a chord deep within my repressed psyche. I was competitive, and I still am, but my years at WMC have dulled that edge. I came here intent on enjoying a free holiday, but I can’t deny the stirring in my chest that still wants to win.
“You’re an introvert?” Rafe asks, leaning over and peering at my page. There is a high degree of skepticism in his voice.
“Yes. Why?”
“Because you’re… you.” He waves a hand in my direction as if to encompass just how me I apparently am. I frown.
“What is that supposed to mean? What are you?”
“I’m an introvert,” he says, showing me his paper. “But a real one.”
“Excuse me, are you saying I lied on my test?”
“No, I’m just saying maybe you don’t know yourself as well as you think you do.”
My jaw drops. “And I suppose you do?”
He shrugs his wide shoulders, and all those changing feelings I tucked away last night are chewed up and swallowed as I fantasize about dangling him over shark-infested waters. I wonder when our next boat trip is. Maybe I could arrange for an “accident.”
“I’m just saying you’re not exactly… subtle.”
“At least I don’t have the personality of a wet paper bag,” I snap.
Whistle Mouth strikes again, and I gasp as Rafe and I bestow her with twin dark looks. She points to the far end of the room, sending us to our respective groups. We’re each handed a problem we need to solve, taking into account everyone’s unique personality type and preferred communication and analysis style.
I’m matched with three white guys: Adam, Evan, and Steve. I recognize Evan as Rafe’s troll friend from earlier. Rafe’s group sits a few tables away, and I pointedly ignore him, angry and definitely hurt by his comments. Every time I think we’re moving in another direction, something comes in to sweep it all away.
We all gather around our designated table, and Evan sits across from me, straddling his chair backward. He gives me a look, and I already sense that I’ll hate whatever comes out of his mouth. Sure enough, he scoots the notepad and pen sitting in the middle of the table towards me. “You can be the notetaker,” he says confidently.
I open my mouth to protest, knowing he’s chosen me because I’m the only woman in the group. But I bite my tongue because sometimes, causing a scene isn’t worth the effort.
A boom of thunder practically shakes the walls, and I grip the pen tightly enough to snap it in two. Instead of abating, this storm only seems to be growing stronger.
We spend the next hour debating and discussing. Evan cuts me off at least half a dozen times and takes credit for three of my suggestions. The other two don’t even flinch.
After we confirm our solution, we’re to write the highest-level points on an easel with a large notepad. We all stare at it until Evan finally looks at me.
“Well?” he asks.
I know exactly what he’s getting at, but I refuse to give him the satisfaction. “Well, what?”
“Aren’t you going to write our ideas down?”
Now, I’m pissed. I shove the notepad towards him with perhaps a bit more force than necessary. It slides over the smooth surface with a hiss and bumps into his elbow.
“Why don’t you do it?”
Evan scratches his chin because I’m not giving him the reaction he wants. “You’re the one who wrote the notes.”
I offer up a sweet smile that burns with acid. “Right, so it’s someone else’s turn.”
“But you’re better at it.”
My blood simmers, my cheeks flushing. This idiot can’t take a hint.
I grip the sides of my chair, my knuckles turning white. “Why am I better at it, Evan?”
He’s utterly confused now, and I shove my chair back and stand.
“Asshole,” I mutter under my breath, and Evan looks like I’ve slapped him.
“Hey, what’s your problem?” he demands.
His forehead scrunches, and his beady little eyes turn dim with incomprehension.
I shake my head and storm out of the room.
My heels echo against the hard tile as I take out my frustration on the floor. It’s not the worst thing that could happen. It’s not the worst thing that has happened, but my nerves are fraying for a thousand different reasons, and it’s getting to me today. I’m used to this, and nine times out of ten, I let it roll over me like I’m supposed to.
“Tris!” Rafe jogs up behind me. “Are you okay? What happened?”
I offer him a glare and continue walking.
“It’s fine,” I say over my shoulder. “Just forget it.”
But Rafe doesn’t listen. He grabs my hand and tugs me back. Something warm and electric shoots up my arm, stealing my breath.
“Please tell me,” he says.
“You wouldn’t understand.”
His shoulders drop. “I’d like to try.”
“Why?”
He shrugs and seems to weigh his words before he replies. “Because.”
“I don’t want to talk about it, okay? I just need some space.”
“But the training program,” he says.
I pinch the bridge of my nose and lean against the wall. “I don’t care, Rafe. I’m not getting it, anyway. I’m not sure why I keep deluding myself into thinking it might happen.”
He watches me, running a hand through his hair as he lets out a long, slow breath. I can tell he has no idea how to respond.
“Just go back and finish the exercise,” I say. “One of us should win. It might as well be you.”
With that, I push off the wall and walk away.