Chapter Sixteen
Winter
Cody walks by Janel’s office flanked by two of the building’s security guards, with a box in his hands and a scowl that could rival the one always on Thomas Moskins’s face. It makes sense now why my boss asked for an impromptu check-in without any notice.
At first, I thought she’d found out about the very unethical experiences I’ve been having with our client.
But her face was far too friendly for a conversation like that when I walked inside her office to chat.
I assume if she ever hears about what Thomas has done to me, it will involve a deep, disappointed frown and someone from HR present to explain why it’s not okay to go to clients’ homes and get pressed against their walls.
Is having wall kinks a thing? Because I think I may have it, given my last two interactions with Thomas, walls, and me being put against one.
Why am I sweaty right now?
“Are you okay?” Janel asks, snapping me away from staring out the glass wall that separates us from a very angry man.
Cody’s obvious anger radiates through the office space, which helps bury my previous thoughts.
“He’s been fired,” I state, trying not to frown.
If Cody was let go, it’s because there was proof he was doing something wrong that went beyond his inappropriate flirting. I keep reminding myself that it isn’t my fault, even if I have the slightest inclination to feel guilty.
Mostly because I’m putting myself in a similar situation.
Sure, I’m not doing it at work. I’m also not forcing myself on anybody who isn’t interested.
That’s the problem. Thomas may call me out for what I want, but it’s obvious he wants this too.
And I hate that the tension between us is palpable and far too dangerous.
Janel’s sigh is light. “We heard all we needed to hear to know about Cody’s indiscretions. He made his bed; now he has to lie in it. The reputation he has here will inevitably follow him no matter where he winds up. All I can hope is that he’s learned his lesson.”
I’m quiet for a long time, fiddling with my fingers in my lap as I watch him collect his belongings from his desk. The guards stand on either side of his cubicle, making sure he doesn’t do anything.
Could that be me if she finds out what I’ve done? The escape I’ve allowed myself to have? I know it’s wrong, and I know I shouldn’t entertain a playboy like Thomas, but…
I’m intrigued.
Curious.
There’s so much to him I don’t know.
More secrets he hasn’t shared and may never.
Why is he married? What do they have to gain from one another? Is it an open relationship? Is she with the love of her life? Why haven’t they divorced?
I love my husband and want him to be happy.
That’s what she said the day at Furrever Home before shoving me into a room with him. Was it her way of telling me to…what? Give me the green light to start something? Imply that it’s totally fine with her if I rub against his leg like he’s a genie’s lamp about to grant me three wishes?
He’s right. I’m mad at myself. Because I do want him, and I don’t know why. Maybe because he’s unobtainable. Disposable. He’s somebody who can make me feel good—a temporary fix to a bigger problem. A Band-Aid on a bullet wound that will end in casualty, even if it’s a delayed reaction.
I want to close my eyes.
Sink into myself.
Be ashamed.
But I…can’t.
I miss being hugged. I can’t believe I admitted that to him.
What’s even more unbelievable is that he’d willingly hugged me at Our Open Table—that he volunteered his own free time just to see me and help Bev and Vinnie.
It’s been a long time since somebody simply wrapped their arms around me because they wanted to.
It’s been even longer since I’ve allowed myself to search for a person willing to do so.
I don’t have time for a relationship, and I’m certainly not in the headspace for one. I need to focus on work, on paying my bills. Not on finding a partner who can cure my fractured heart. Truthfully, I’m not sure anybody is capable. Even after what Thomas and I discussed.
In hindsight, my minor obsession with Thomas Moskins makes sense. Temporary means that I can have fun and let it go when the time comes. It means not expecting more than the bare minimum from him, so I don’t get hurt.
“It seems as though things with Mr. Moskins are going well,” she comments, snapping me away from the dooming thoughts echoing in my head to look at her.
“What?”
One of her eyebrows lifts at the pitch of my tone.
“Mr. Moskins,” she repeats slowly, eyeing me for a moment with a frown.
“I’ve been monitoring the articles about him, and they’re starting to turn around.
There’s certainly some more work to be done, but when you search his name, it’s the events he’s been doing around Fairbanks that comes up first. People are looking forward to seeing him start for the Fireflies this fall.
There have even been pictures of him entering and leaving the stadium with his team, which is far better than the old ones of him leaving hotels with women. ”
Relief massages at my tense muscles, and I try to relax in my chair. “Right. Yes. I’ve noticed that too. After our next event this weekend, we should only have to monitor the media and push the narrative we want. By then, I’m sure the negative press will have been buried.”
It’s a trained, robotic response. Professional.
I’ve heard Janel say the same thing when it seems like our work is successfully doing what it’s supposed to.
Two weeks from now, I won’t have to see Thomas or his adorable kitten again.
I can rip the Band-Aid off and go about my life as though I never knew who he was.
And that’s for the better after where we left things off. Whenever I’m around him, my brain short-circuits, and I do reckless things. Like follow him inside his home. And word vomit things he has no right knowing.
Did he need to know I basically hate myself?
No. He could weaponize that against me. But part of me knows he won’t.
Because if he wanted to ruin me, he would have by now.
He hasn’t said a word about what happened at the animal shelter to anybody, after all.
There’s a chance that he’s doing this because he’s intrigued by me and the stormy rain clouds always hovering over my head, because they match his own.
“I’ll admit, I thought this would be harder,” she muses. “It seems as though he surprised us with his cooperation.”
I’m not sure I even register what she says before I blurt, “He got a cat.”
Her brows pinch. “Who did?”
I clear my throat. “Moskins. Thomas. He adopted a cat from the shelter. Her name is Oreo, and he took her to the food bank with him. They may have gotten a photo or two of her, although he asked to keep them away from the portfolio they were compiling to send to his agent.”
Maybe that’s too much information, but my filter doesn’t seem to work when I’m nervous.
“Why would he bring a cat to a food bank?” she asks, just as confused as I was seeing him with the carrier.
I shrug as casually as possible. “Apparently, he didn’t realize he could leave her home. I don’t think he’s ever had a pet before.”
Janel hums, then picks up her phone and starts typing something in.
“He hasn’t posted about it. I’m surprised his agent hasn’t said something to him about posting a photo of her.
It would be great press. People were receptive to the images the shelter shared, but there was a sixty-forty split in his interview questions when he spoke about his plans for the future.
Barely anybody brought up the scandal and asked more about if he adopted any of the animals. ”
I saw the pictures when they were shared on Furrever Home’s page.
They’d tagged his Instagram, which had photos of him in a bright yellow shirt holding a cute pug puppy that was licking his face.
He looked so boyish in them, so carefree compared to normal.
In those images, he wasn’t the superstar athlete who got paid millions to play hockey.
He was simply a man enjoying his time with some animals.
The only problematic question that was asked, despite it being off the approved questions list, was whether or not his wife would be coming to support him at his first game. He’d simply said, “Next question,” while scratching between a pit bull’s ears.
Anything pertaining to his wife was off-limits. Except, apparently, when it came to me. He’s told me things nobody else knows. So why do I feel jealous whenever somebody gets close to him like he’s mine to claim?
I cringe, thinking about the jealousy I felt when it came to Honor slipping him the piece of paper.
When I got home that day, I logged onto an old social media account I hadn’t used in years and started searching for her name.
Sure enough, Thomas wasn’t lying to me. Honor Hoffman is married to the Fireflies’ new head coach and is the daughter of the Rangers’ coach in New York.
She’s an advocate for epilepsy awareness, has adorable photos of her service dog, Puck, and is an amazing photographer.
Plus, she’s gorgeous. And so, so kind. Which made being pissed at her that much worse.
It was bad enough watching Kayleigh go after him, but seeing him go to Honor had been a punch to the gut I had no right feeling.
I’d felt…used. Like I was simply any other girl he’d ever been with.
Wanted until he got what he wanted and disposed of.
It reminded me of how little I open myself up to people, because then they have the opportunity to hurt you.
Worse. They have the opportunity to get to know you.
And the more Thomas learns, the more he’ll understand how truly messed up I am.
“He didn’t want it to be posted about,” I explain to her, trying to brush off the heaviness sitting on my chest. My heart feels like it’s jammed in my throat.
Janel looks up at me with a blank expression.