Chapter Five
Moskins
She won’t sit still. It’s fucking annoying watching her squirm in the private booth far from the public eye.
I always request a section where people can’t snap photos or video me.
The occurrence has become far too common these days, thanks to my face being a regular feature on people’s social media with ridiculous clickbait headlines.
Suddenly, everyone wants to be a citizen journalist documenting my every goddamn move.
“Would you sit still,” I grumble, flexing my fingers around the water glass. “You act like you’re about to get tortured.”
She frowns. “Aren’t I?”
I snort, loosening my grip before I break my cup. “If I wanted to torture you, I’d take you back to my place to do it more privately.”
Her face, which I’ve spent way too much time studying every feature and angle, turns red. It takes me a minute to realize her mind must have gone to a dirty place, which makes me grin in approval.
“Mind out of the gutter, Bronte,” I bemuse, making the color in her cheeks darken.
She’s got a pretty face with round, doe-like green eyes and a full, pouty mouth.
I can picture doing vile things to those lips, but I refrain from telling her as much in fear she’d use her cutlery in retaliation. “I don’t have whips and chains there.”
Toys, on the other hand, I do have. I don’t plan on sharing that with her, because I’m not sure she could handle it.
Winter clears her throat. “Now that we’ve established that you’re not the next Christian Grey, can you enlighten me as to why I’m here?”
“I don’t know about that,” I challenge, my grin growing. “I’d hate to be discredited for my unique tastes. I’m sure if they wrote a book about me, it’d make twice as much as Fifty Shades of Grey.”
One of her brows quirks. “I don’t know if I should be impressed or scared that you know what I’m referring to. You don’t even know who Charlotte Bronte is.”
I refrain from laughing or disagreeing with her. What she doesn’t know is that my house contains shelves full of leather-bound books with gold foiling on every piece of classic literature from the nineteenth century. Collecting them is a hobby of mine that not many people know about.
Charlotte Bronte sits alongside other greats of the period. Jane Austen. Charles Dickens. Walt Whitman.
I’d rather she assume I’m just another airhead jock, like most people write me off as.
It’s easier to live under the presumption that my narrow-minded ways are nothing more than surface-level.
Trivial. To everybody, I only like booze, women, and sports.
They don’t know about my actual interests.
Sure, women and sports are on that list, and I enjoy a good drink now and again, but that isn’t all I’m made up of.
Books, documentaries, and a good cup of hot coffee are what make me happy.
Days where I can be alone with my thoughts, no matter how rocky those may be, make me happy. I don’t always like isolation, but I’ve come to appreciate it when the rest of my world is deafening from the noise.
But none of that is what I brought her here to talk about.
Changing topics, I hit her with the first question that’s been on my mind since hanging up with my agent. “Do you know who Ashton Dessen is?”
The ass hasn’t been replying to my texts or calling me back, so I figure it’s best to go right to the source for answers. However, the source seems confused.
A little line forms between her brows. “Uh…who?”
“Ashton Dessen,” I repeat. “He’s my agent.”
It’s obvious that she has no clue who I’m talking about, which only furthers my distaste for Ashton’s reaction on the phone.
Eventually, Winter shakes her head. “Sorry, no. Should I? Janel is the one who usually works personally with our clients’ teams, so I’m sure she’s spoken to him before. She keeps records of conversations in her notebooks if you need to check something.”
I lean back in my chair and stare at her.
I’m fairly sure that she’s telling the truth, and I don’t know why that irritates me.
Maybe because I can’t outright ask about her past. Well, I could.
But I have a feeling she isn’t the type to indulge me.
If I were nicer, if I left a better first impression, I would have stood a better chance of getting any piece to her puzzle.
“Why are you staring at me?” she asks, deadpan.
I make her uncomfortable.
That’s probably a good thing.
“What’s the deal with that prick from your office?” is my next question. I’m not owed an answer, but I want one.
Her nose scrunches. “Cody?”
She neutralizes her expression, but I can tell there’s a level of distaste there. It was written all over her face when I saw him making himself at home on her desk. I don’t know what they were talking about before I stepped in, but it made her shoulders rigid and her face hard.
Winter’s focus stays on her untouched soda, staring at the bubbles lingering on the top. “He’s innocent enough. All talk, really.”
That doesn’t answer my question. “He shouldn’t be talking to you like that.” My reply comes out like a low growl, earning her attention.
She peers up at me through her lashes, parting her lips silently as she gawks at my tone.
“Nobody has a right to say shit like that,” I tell her firmly. “If he continues, you need to report it to your boss.”
I’ve been around dickheads like him who think they’re more important than they are. He’s a walking sexual harassment violation.
“Why do you care?” she counters, shaking her head as she studies the way my fingers clench on to my glass again.
I lift a shoulder. “I don’t like women being disrespected, and I don’t like people like him.”
Her eyes narrow as she soaks in that reply. She doesn’t believe me. Or maybe she finds it hard to. I wasn’t exactly Mr. Rogers during our first meeting. But I also wasn’t spitting hateful accusations at her like her coworker.
Cody. Internally, I sneer at the name. I’ll make a mental note to speak to Janel about him before our meeting, because I have a feeling Winter isn’t going to.
“I can handle myself,” she informs me, meeting my eyes. There’s reluctance in her gaze before her shoulders slump a fraction. “But I do appreciate you stepping in. Cody can be a bit much sometimes.”
That’s putting it lightly. “Does your boss know?”
Her lips curl downward. “That he’s annoying? Yeah, I’m sure she does.”
I gape. “Does she know that he harasses you? I’m sure a guy like him isn’t only bothering one person. If he’s a nuisance, somebody needs to inform the boss and get it taken care of.”
Truthfully, I shouldn’t give a shit. It isn’t like Winter means anything to me.
But I’ve seen Emaly in her shoes before.
She’d been harassed by one of her attendings at the hospital she’d done her residency at, and came to me crying after a month of nonstop comments from him.
It’d taken everything in me not to show up and beat the pulp out of that guy when she admitted he’d cornered her in the on-call room one night.
Instead of hurting him, I’d gathered enough proof to report him to the hospital director and get his ass canned so he couldn’t do it to her or anybody else again.
Maybe Winter reminds me a little of my wife. She’s got a hard exterior, but it’s a front. Inside, she’s much softer. Sensitive. I want to know why.
Winter takes a long sip of her drink to stall, and I try not to focus on how her lips wrap around the straw. She’s not wearing makeup today, and I almost like her better for it. The first day we met, she looked like she was trying too hard to impress someone.
When she has no other reason but to answer, she sits back and toys with her straw wrapper. “I feel like it’s partially my fault that he acts that way,” she admits, biting her bottom lip.
I want to rip it from her mouth and smooth my thumb over the spot her front teeth are digging into. “Why is that?”
She’s suddenly sheepish. “We went out once.”
I instantly scowl. “You went out with that guy? He smells like he walked through the perfume section at Macy’s three times to avoid having to buy the scent.”
The laugh that bursts past her lips is unexpected and lightens her face. It’s a nice sound that almost makes me smile.
Almost.
“To be honest,” she tells me, “I only went out with him because money was tight and I didn’t have any food at the apartment. I got a meal, split it in half, and took my leftovers home for dinner the next night.”
I blink at her. “You date men for food?”
She makes a face. “You make it sound like I’m prostituting myself out. I don’t go home with them. I never do.”
I’m hardly the person to judge what one does in their sex life, but that doesn’t mean I like the idea. “Going out with him doesn’t earn him the right to talk to you that way at work. Have you told him you’re not interested?”
Her hesitation makes me want to pinch the bridge of my nose.
“Not in so many words,” she murmurs, her quiet voice making me shake my head. “I’ve told him it’s not a good idea that we go out on a second date. If I wanted to, I would have. It seems obvious enough to me that means no.”
Well, he’s a guy. An arrogant guy. They need far more basic terminology. Like ‘fuck off, I’m not interested’ for one. “You can mouth off to a professional athlete during your first meeting with one, but you can’t tell your coworker that you don’t want to date him?”
She frowns. “It isn’t that easy.”
My brows go up in doubt.
“I have to work with him,” she explains, pulling her drink toward her and tracing her finger along the condensation on the sides. “If I make him mad, I have to see him every day. If some cocky client comes in and mouths off to me, I can dish it back because they aren’t going to be around for long.”
All I do is stare at her pointedly. Because I’m right here. Across from her. Living and breathing flesh. “How’d that work out for you?” I quip.
She glares.
My grin returns.
“Is there a point to this meeting, Mr.—”