Chapter 2 #2
Have I mentioned the size of the bathroom?
Please, let me describe it to you. It’s small.
Like it could win a world record for the smallest bathroom.
It’s a micro-bathroom. Barely enough room for one person to turn around, and now it’s me and Seymour shoved into the compact space.
His broad shoulders take up most of the width, and I’m practically pressed against his chest.
I’ve never been more aware of a man or more annoyed. The heat from his body seems to fill the entire space, along with that maddening scent of soap and peppermint.
This will only look worse.
“Mandy?” Diana asks from outside.
“Yes,” I squeak. Clear my throat and repeat more normally. “Yes.”
“Oh, sorry. Thought I heard a man’s voice.”
“No, just me.” My voice wavers slightly. Seymour’s chest vibrates with silent laughter.
“Okay, I’ll see you upstairs for the meeting.”
“Yup. See you in a few.”
I turn as much as I can in the small space and look into the mirror.
Not sure why. It’s something to do. Anything to avoid acknowledging Seymour’s presence behind me, his chest nearly touching my back.
The fluorescent lights cast unflattering shadows under my eyes, making my skin look pale against my blue hair.
“What are you doing?” he asks, his voice a low rumble that I feel more than hear.
I suppose I’m primping, though there’s not much to primp. “Powdering my nose.”
“Really.” He gives me the look in the mirror, one eyebrow raised skeptically.
Right. I have no makeup. My hands flutter up to my hair instead, giving it a few nervous bounces and smoothing over the messy strands.
The blue doesn’t shock me anymore. I dyed it about five years ago, because five years ago my life changed.
I’m not sure I’ve recovered. Dying my hair was a statement, a rebellion against everything that happened. “Fixing my hair.”
“Sure, okay.” His reflection watches me with unsettling intensity.
Obviously, he doesn’t believe me.
“I think you’re avoiding looking me in the eye.”
I force myself to meet his gaze in the mirror, lifting my chin defiantly. “I think you’re full of yourself.”
“Mandy Farnsworth, why haven’t you told your boss about that creep?” The question comes out soft but insistent.
It’s been a day. A long, exhausting day, and I’m not in the mood for Seymour.
Or to be this close to a man I despise, feeling the warmth of him at my back, breathing in his scent.
It’s not that Darren grabbed my butt or had me hang a painting so he could possibly look at my butt.
That bothers me. But it’s his jab about the artists that really stings.
That Diana should hire real artists. I shouldn’t let it bother me, but it does.
I get by with the meager income from my scenic paintings and my pay here.
I get by. But I want what every other artist wants.
Or some artists. I don’t care about fame.
I don’t even really care about the money to a certain point.
I want the freedom to do what I love. I want to share my art with the world, but even I know why that’s not happening.
My current work lacks honesty. It lacks emotion.
It’s me.
It’s all me.
“What’s wrong?” he whispers, his words a lullaby. Something that could be called kindness threads through them. Goosebumps join goosebumps in a race across my skin.
“Everything,” I whisper back. The word catches in my throat. I’m tired of playing the role. I’m exhausted from the entire morning, from the charade of the past five years.
And we have a moment.
I’m not sure even sure what it is, but I think during my reverie I leaned back into the comforting warmth of his body. His arms slide around me, strong and secure, and suddenly I’m enveloped in a hug. The scent of him surrounds me.
My eyes burn, and I blink rapidly against the sudden moisture. I can’t remember the last time I’ve been hugged like this. Sure, I’ve hugged my friends, even my brother, but that’s different than this. Whatever this is. It’s something tender and caring. His heartbeat thrums steadily against my back.
I startle, reality crashing back in. What am I doing? Cuddling with Seymour Black in the world’s tiniest bathroom under flickering fluorescent lights?
I’m aware of every inch of Seymour Black standing behind me. My body seems to be aware too, my skin tingling everywhere we touch. What a traitor I am to myself and women everywhere. He’s probably left a string of broken hearts in his wake, women just like me who fell for his act of kindness.
This has to be some kind of cosmic joke, or he’s playing games with me. The thought makes my blood boil.
The fury returns, hot and sharp. My foot shoots out, and with the back of my heel I kick him in the shins. The satisfying thud of contact does little to calm my racing heart.
“Oof.” He pulls away, his arms dropping as if I’ve burned him. The loss of his warmth leaves me oddly bereft.
There’s a moment as we connect eyes in the bathroom mirror where I feel naked. Exposed. Like he sees straight through my defenses to the real me. He sees my hurt and pain. No wonder my face is the color of schoolroom chalk. I let no one see this side of me.
Panic hits hard, clawing at my chest.
“I see what you’re doing, Seymour. Don’t even think I’ll be one of your hussies just because you rode in on a white horse and rescued me from that pervert.
I can take care of myself. And you are the last person I’d kiss in the world’s tiniest bathroom.
” Wait. Who said anything about kissing? My cheeks flame hotter.
Any tenderness vanishes from his expression. His eyes are piercing, a darker shade of green than before, like storm-tossed sea glass. A muscle flickers in his jaw. “Too bad,” he shoots out. “You don’t know what you’re missing.”
“I despise men like you.” Even as I say the words, they taste like lies on my tongue.
He shrugs, the movement elegant despite the cramped space. “You don’t even know me.”
“You’re right. And I don’t want to.” That part is true. Mostly. Maybe. The bathroom suddenly feels too small, too warm.
He gives me a quick nod and reaches for the door handle. “See you later.”
What? Pfft. I will not see him later.
I don’t want to give Seymour anymore real estate in my brain, but he’s already taken up residence there like an unwanted tenant.
I look once again in the mirror, gripping the edges of the porcelain sink.
I’m flushed now, color high in my cheeks.
My hands are trembling against the cool surface.
My heart rate is doing funny things, skipping and jumping. I’m not happy about any of it.
It could be several things. One, my encounters with Darren Meade, the anger I feel at his grabby hands still simmering under my skin.
Two, the stress of the upcoming board meeting, because this is not our regular monthly meeting.
It’s just a couple of us. Diana has news, and from her tone earlier this week, it’s not the good kind.
There’s a tiny voice whispering in my head, cutting through my rationalizations. Look at the signs, Mandy. Irregular breathing. Rosy cheeks. Increased heartbeat. You know what it is. The voice sounds suspiciously smug, like Seymour himself has taken up residence in my consciousness.
I refuse to listen to that voice in my head.
I mean what girl wouldn’t experience those things after being in close quarters with Seymour Black.
And I mean close quarters. Who wouldn’t fall prey after he hugged them?
With tenderness. Like he cared. The phantom sensation of his arms around me lingers like a ghost.
With my hands still gripping the sides of the sink, knuckles white with tension, I give myself a scolding. My reflection glares back at me, blue hair wild around my face. “Stop reacting like that. He’s just a man. A human. A body. He’s playing with you. Do you hear me?”
It’s true.
I despise Seymour Black.
I can be grateful that he helped me out of a tricky situation. I can feel wonder at the warmth of his hug. I can acknowledge that he smells unfairly good and has dimples that should be illegal.
At the same time, I can despise the man. Two minutes of good behavior doesn’t counteract what I know of him and what I’ve seen. He’s arrogant, controlling, and probably views women as disposable entertainment.
There. Now my head’s on straight.
I smooth down my hair one last time, straighten my shoulders, and take a deep breath. The air still smells faintly of his cologne.
Time to go to the meeting. Time to focus on what matters. The gallery, my art, my life. Not Seymour Black and his misleading moments of kindness.
The sooner I get this meeting over with, the sooner I can forget this morning ever happened.