Chapter 10
Ten
“I need an effing shopping spree.”
Two weeks of being away, first in Victoria, then sick, of being tucked away in a half-world of tissues and fever, buying random poetry, listening to music drained in melancholy and mistakes, spiraling over my present, future, and… the boy.
And now I was back, normal, very professional.
A perfectly functional assistant whose body didn’t ache at the memory of what had happened on a battered sofa, while I was supposed to be dying of the flu.
It’s all perfectly fine. The doors slid open with a gentle whoosh, and there it was: Tommo in all its taupe, poster-decorated glory.
Even though this place painfully reminded me why I was actually there: the need to pay bills and earn my keep at home after what happened, the nightmares, the scars, the physio, I actually liked it: the quiet bustle, customers complaining about their lost hats.
Tom, with his dad jokes and the coffee smell burned into the carpet. The normalcy of it all.
And then:
“Alicia!”
Mia’s voice rang out from reception before I even cleared the hallway. She half-launched over the counter, ponytail and curly bangs swinging in a not-so-graceful run in my direction.
“To heaven and hell, look at you: upright and everything. It’s a miracle.”
I smiled, warmth spreading through my chest at the sight of her. “Yeah, they almost called a priest, but then I remembered how much I missed the thrill of ferry reschedule updates.”
She grinned. “Tom’s been moping without you. Had to schedule his own meetings, the horror.”
I laughed, the tension in my chest easing just a little. Mia was the same, and the world hadn’t changed too much in my absence.
“Well, miracle girl,” she said, winking. “Coffee’s weak today, printers jammed twice, Kevin the Cactus is somehow still alive, and,” she dropped her voice slightly, “the IT boys have been lurking more than usual.”
My heart did a weird, traitorous flutter.
“Lurking?” I echoed, too casual.
“Yeah. Like wolves around a henhouse.” She smirked. “Wonder what changed around here.” Was this mad woman I’d learned to adore so much, starting to play a not-so-subtle cat-and-mouse game with me? What did reception know?
Before I could throw something at her, a movement near the kitchen caught my eye. Tall. Black T-shirt. Dark chinos. Messy hair. Paul.
He wasn’t looking at me directly. He was pretending to study the vending machine like it held the answers to the universe. But I caught it: the quick glance and the crooked smile ghosting his mouth: he was here, and he knew. And my entire central nervous system forgot how to operate.
“I should go,” I mumbled, backing away like a suspicious sniper in a bad video game.
“Go forth, champ,” Mia said, watching me like a cat watches a laser pointer. “Slay the Monday dragons.”
By the time Friday rolled around, the office buzzed with the sluggish energy of a slow summer work week.
People hovered around their cubicles, conference rooms, and coffee machines like aimless moths.
I was back at my desk, next to Kevin the Cactus eyeing me suspiciously, finally catching up on ferry schedules, revenue sheets, and Tom’s dry-as-dust client emails, trying hard not to let my mind drift toward airfields, moldy hangars, and the thought of what should have been.
Then my “now” caught up with me. I felt it: a quiet presence behind me and then a shadow falling across my desk. I knew it was him before I even looked up, and knew it by the way the air shifted.
“Hey, girl,” Paul said, voice low, like a secret.
I looked up. He was leaning casually on the edge of my desk, arms crossed, one foot hooked behind the other. Like he had all the time in the world. Like he knew exactly what kind of chaos he could cause just by standing there.
“Hey, boy,” I managed.
He smiled slowly: that dangerous, lazy kind of smile that said I know what you’re thinking right now.
“How’s the patient?” he asked, voice soft enough that no one else could hear.
“Better,” I said. “Alive, functional, and slightly less contagious.”
“That’s good.”
Paul leaned closer, voice low enough that no one else could hear.
“Because I had plans for you being alive,” he murmured.
“Dangerous words in a workplace, Andersen,” I said, shifting my head slightly.
His eyebrows lifted, and he seemed to be surprised by my sudden boldness, so I let it linger for a heartbeat longer before adding, voice lower, “You better have good plans.”
He huffed a quiet laugh, that delicious crooked smile playing on his lips.
“Don’t worry,” he said, stepping closer, “I’m stepping up my game from the last time I saw you. And I was already kneeling in front of you, if I remember correctly.”
Then, his fingers brushed the inside of my wrist and started running circles around it with his thumb. Featherlight. He must have felt my pulse rapidly increase its rat-a-tat-tat beat, completely giving away my reaction to his touch, so—of course—he knew.
“Alicia, are you sure you’ve recovered completely? Your heartbeat seems to be a bit off the charts today. Asking as a concerned colleague… and MD by night,” he asked in his low, husky voice, while continuing to caress my wrist and forearm, and looking straight into my eyes.
But I didn’t flinch. Instead, I tilted my chin up and met his gaze—fully, completely—the way I had during our first dare. Calm on the outside, despite the inferno blooming under my skin.
Paul stilled and his pupils darkened, voice roughening slightly.
“You’re doing the eye thing again to me, Alicia King,” he muttered, his voice almost ragged, “and it’s driving me insane.
Now it’s even deeper: more… golden flickers.
But now I know what really makes you reach that meadow. Precious knowledge.”
I swallowed down the dizzying pulse at the base of my throat.
“That’s correct,” I said softly.
He stared at me like he couldn’t decide whether to kiss me, laugh, or drop me onto the floor and do something so scandalous that it would make us un-hireable in ten provinces and fifty states. And three Northern Territories.
Most probably: all of the above. Instead, he straightened reluctantly, gave me one last look that promised far more than corporate life could contain, and walked away, hands casually tucked into his pockets.
Like he hadn’t just shattered the floor beneath me.
I sat there for a moment, pulse galloping, pretending to refocus on the red and green lines of invoices, pretending I was still a rational human being.
I was proud of myself, but absolutely shaking at the same time.
I needed air. I needed caffeine. I needed an effing shopping spree.
“Pleeease, Mia,” I said twenty minutes later, standing at her desk like a woman possessed. “Emergency lunch break—and I’m dragging you to the mall.”
Mia looked up suspiciously. “You? Shopping? Voluntarily? Are you high?”
“I need… clothes,” I said breathlessly.
Mia narrowed her eyes, the way moms do when you claim you don’t know who ate the last cookie. “Define ‘clothes.’ Business casual? An emotional support hoodie?”
“Underwear,” I blurted. “You know. That kind.”
Mia blinked. Stared. Then snorted so hard that half her coffee went down the wrong pipe.
“Okay, okay, whoa! Did Kevin the Cactus finally propose? Or are you moonlighting as a ferry hostess now?”
I clutched her wrist. “Don’t ask questions. Just come, please—I’ll buy you coffee. Or a small country.”
Mia stood, grabbing her purse. “Babe, if it gets you out of that sad excuse for a bra you wear every week, I’ll personally fund the shopping trip. And this is infinitely better than the Netflix shows I planned to watch tonight.”
We left the building like two thieves planning a heist, except the only thing we were stealing was my dignity—or maybe finding it again.
That’s how I found myself—half an hour later—standing inside a boutique called Velvet & Ivy, surrounded by more lace and silk than I’d ever seen outside of a Victoria’s Secret ad.
Mia was already rifling through racks with terrifying efficiency.
“So,” she said, holding up a sheer black slip that looked like it could barely contain a pencil, “who are we seducing?”
“Not seducing,” I said firmly, crossing my arms. “Enhancing.”
Mia grinned like a shark sensing blood.
“Enhancing. Babe, you can lie to yourself but not to me.” She wiggled the hanger suggestively. “And let me guess… he’s tall, dangerous, and probably extremely illegal in at least twelve countries?”
I blushed so hard I thought my ears would combust. She laughed, softer this time, stepping closer. “It’s okay, Alicia. You deserve to feel good, and you deserve to be wanted.”
Wanted. God, that word sliced right through me. Paul’s hands on my body and his mouth tracing the scars I hated. His voice, low and rough in my ear: “Every scar, every tremble, every stubborn part of you: I want it. If you let me.” I swallowed hard and pointed vaguely at the racks.
“Help me choose something that makes me still feel like me. Correction: an enhanced me.”
Mia rolled up her sleeves with mock seriousness. “Operation: Unfuck Your Underwear Drawer is a go.”
The first ten minutes were a blur of silk, laughter, and horrifying price tags. At one point, Mia held up a see-through bodysuit with so many hooks and stripes that it could have been mistaken for complicated origami.
“Absolutely not,” I said, backing away like it was radioactive.
“But think about the look on his face!” she protested, waggling it at me.
“I’m trying not to die of embarrassment, thanks.”
We eventually found ourselves in a quieter corner of the store, near a display of satin bras and matching lace panties that looked… less terrifying and more wearable for a human being, not only a mannequin.
Mia turned to me, hands on her hips. “Serious question time. When was the last time you bought lingerie you actually liked? Not practical sports bras. Not sad, mismatched sets or bras that don’t fit. Something that made you feel like you could walk into a room and own it?”
I stared at her, face blank.
“Flight school?” I offered weakly. “I think I had a lacy grey bra once, but it wasn’t even matching. And the guy I really liked was so stressed he couldn’t unhook it. Traumatizing. Definitely not owning anything or anyone.”
Mia clutched her chest, laughing. “Babe. No. We are starting over.”
She picked up a pale gold set: delicate without being too sweet, and handed it to me.
“Try this. Trust me.”
I took it with shaking hands and retreated into the fitting room. Alone, I stripped down to my underwear and caught my reflection in the mirror.
For a second, I froze. The scars were there, of course: pale and reddish lines crossing my side, a small patch near my ribs, a rougher texture around my collarbone, and all the way up to my neck. Evidence of the fire and shattered glass that almost took me, but there was something else too.
The curve of my waist, the strong line of my thighs, the shape of my shoulders, softened by the afternoon light streaming through the skylight. Still broken, but not ugly anymore.
I put on the new set carefully. The satin clung to my body like a second skin.
The bra cupped me perfectly, making me look taller, prouder somehow.
A different size than I normally bought.
The panties hugged my hips without digging in, sitting low enough to feel daring but not desperate.
I turned, examining myself from every angle.
Was this what Paul saw when he looked at me?
Not the wreckage, but survival—and the beauty that rose from it?
“Let’s see!” Mia called from outside, knocking once.
“No way.”
“Babe. If I don’t see it, it doesn’t exist.”
Groaning, I cracked open the door just enough for her to peek inside.
Mia’s face lit up like Christmas. “YES. That’s the one.”
“You think so?” She shoved the door open wider, ignoring my protests, and pointed dramatically at my reflection.
“Look at yourself. You’re smoking hot, you just forgot for a little while.”
I stared at the mirror again, this time trying to see myself through her eyes.
Maybe she was right, and it was time to stop hiding.
I wasn’t fully convinced just yet, but maybe it was time to own the fire, scars, and trembling hands.
We left the store loaded down with way more than I planned: the gold set, a midnight blue bra with matching panties, and— in a moment of absolute insanity—a garter belt that Mia insisted was “for future emergencies.”
“And stockings,” she said, tossing them into the bag. “Trust me, Alicia. Nothing says ‘I know exactly what I want’ like a girl in stockings.”
“Future emergencies?” I repeated, scandalized, and she just winked.
As we made our way back toward the food court for victory lattes, Mia looped her arm through mine. “Hey,” she said casually. “Just… be careful, okay?”
I blinked. “Careful?”
She shrugged, trying to look nonchalant and failing spectacularly.
“Sometimes the guys who look the best and promise you the sky… can hurt you the worst.”
Mia wasn’t prying or judging: she was just… reminding me that feelings like this: surprising, intense, overwhelming could be dangerous—and also so worth a try. I squeezed her arm back.
“I’ll be careful,” I said. “But I’m not backing down yet, either.”
Mia smiled. “That’s my girl.”
We sat down with our coffees, shopping bags piled between us like trophies from a battle well-fought.
And for the first time in what felt like years, I felt like I was standing on solid ground.
Not because someone had saved me, but because I had chosen to go for it. For me. And I had a friend by my side.