8. Luther
Luther
Work on the Novagene project is moving fast—faster than I expected, and it’s because the team we put together is solid.
The base model is already in draft form. Anouk’s logic is airtight. She’s brilliant, and Vijay is practically worshipping at the altar of her pivot tables.
It should make me proud. I took a chance on her, and it’s working out beautifully. Instead, it pisses me off.
Because every time I see her and Vijay huddled over a spreadsheet, laughing at some obscure data joke, I think about the guy she was with at the pier.
The guy who put his arm around her like he did it all the time.
The guy she lives with, according to Vijay.
“No, man, she lives with someone,” he told me when I asked what the fuck was going on between him and Anouk.
“Lives?”
“Yeah. They have a place in Haight. Bought it together. He’s a firefighter.”
Finn. The guy with the big muscles is a fucking firefighter? Seriously? Even Erin had wondered how Anouk snagged someone so hot. That irritated me as well.
“Wow! Didn’t expect to see her with a guy like that.”
“What do you mean?”
Erin scoffed. “Come on, aren’t you surprised that Miss Wallflower has a hot boyfriend?”
“She’s not a wallflower,” I muttered and then changed the topic, but I couldn’t do so to my mood, which remained sour.
They own a mortgage together, which in this day and age is a whole lot more legally binding than a marriage.
It shouldn’t matter. Right?
But it does.
And I hate that it does.
“Anouk,” I greet when she steps into my office for our scheduled one-on-one.
She’s in a navy-blue midi skirt that fits her well, molds to her pert ass, and a cream silk dress shirt. Her shoes are sensible, beige-colored ones.
She’s wearing another scarf today—navy and cream. It’s styled and angled perfectly.
She has small, delicate feet. I’m seeing more and more of them as spring is coming in stronger. She wore peep-toe shoes the other day. Her toenails are painted pink.
Her fingernails are bare, so it’s incongruous and sexy that her toes aren’t.
You could put her on a street in Paris, and she’d fit in just fine—her slender body and graceful movements.
“G-good morning,” she whispers.
There we go!
She stutters more around me than she does with others, which tells me that I’m the fucking ogre in her story, making her nervous.
If Vijay were here, she would give him a sunny smile and not stumble over a single word.
He’s commented on how her stutter is almost non-existent when she’s talking one-on-one. It’s in large groups and settings that she struggles. And, apparently, with me.
I nod and gesture for her to sit. “We need to talk about your presentation skills.”
Her shoulders stiffen instantly.
Damn it! That wasn’t how I meant to start this conversation. I was going to say she’s been doing good work and all that….
“O-okay.”
Fuck! Now I’ve made her even more nervous.
Luther, you need to get your head out of your ass and be nice. It’s not her fault you’re attracted to her.
I fold my hands on the desk like every leadership coach I’ve ever had. “Your analysis is strong. Exceptional, actually. But your delivery is holding you back.”
Her expression literally folds into itself. “I kn-know.”
She’s hurting, I know that, but I also know that this needs to be done, so I keep at it.
“You need to work on your confidence in group situations.” I look at her mouth instead of her eyes. She’s not wearing lipstick, but her lips are pink and bruised because she chews on them. They’re glistening with some lip gloss she probably put on. I can imagine them wrapped around….
Snap out of it, Luther.
“Right now, you’re not client-ready.”
She flinches.
It cuts me.
God, why did I say it like that?
I plow ahead anyway. “If Vijay hadn’t stepped in during the meeting yesterday, half the room wouldn’t have understood you.”
She recoils, swallows. “I c-can im-improve.”
“You’ll have to,” I push.
Soften, you dumb fuck. You’re making this worse.
Her green eyes flicker up to mine; I see hurt that’s quickly wiped away, replaced with professional blankness.
“Al-alright,” she says softly.
A tight, unwelcome sensation curls in me. I keep moving, refusing to examine it.
“I want you to practice your delivery with me. Run-throughs, daily. I’m saying this because I want you to grow—not because you’re failing. This is a development opportunity.”
She nods again, but it’s mechanical.
Hollow.
Perfect. You’ve coached the life right out of her, asshole.
We fall silent for a while. I don’t know what to say now that I’ve vomited out what I needed to, totally ungracefully.
“Any-th-thing else?” she asks.
Not rudely, but in resignation. In defeat.
I hate that I caused that.
“No. That’s all.”
There’s no saving this, and in any case, I’m doing this for her own good. Coaching is how we get better.
She stands, fingers twisting into the ends of her scarf. “I’ll…I’ll do b-better.”
“Yes, you will.” It comes out tight, and she shudders some more, if that was even possible.
She leaves, quiet as a breath.
The door clicks shut.
I drag both hands over my face, shame settling in hard and heavy, the unambiguous sense that I’ve just kicked a puppy, and there’s no undoing it.
Goddammit, Luther.
I wasn’t coaching her.
I wasn’t helping her.
I was lashing out because I’m jealous.
Jealous of that damn firefighter of hers.
Jealous of how she smiled at him.
Jealous that she goes home to someone who gets to hear her laugh.
Jealous. Period. Over Anouk Starling.
What the hell is wrong with me?
I stay annoyed at work for the rest of the day, and when I leave, I can see that both Erin and Vijay are relieved to be done with my company.
I go home and make dinner—a mushroom risotto.
Simple, but demanding enough that if I don’t pay attention, it will punish me. Which is exactly what I need. Something precise to do. Something that forces my brain to focus on the stove instead of replaying how I screwed things up with Anouk.
Again.
I grab the cutting board, slice the cremini mushrooms thin, listening to the rhythmic tap of the knife against wood alongside Tupac.
I add olive oil to the pot.
Sauté the mushrooms until they release their moisture and go golden at the edges.
The smell is warm, earthy. Comforting.
I toss in the shallots. They hiss, sputter.
“Just cook,” I mutter to myself. “Don’t think.”
I add the Arborio rice and coat it in the oil, stirring, stirring—because risotto demands the kind of attention that leaves no room for self-flagellation.
But, of course, I think about her anyway.
About the meeting.
About how sharply I spoke.
How she shrank, and how I hated myself instantly for making her shrink.
I pour in a ladle of hot broth, listening to the rice sigh as it absorbs the liquid.
Stir.
Stir.
Keep stirring.
My phone buzzes across the counter.
My mother.
I turn down the music and put on my earbuds. “Hey, Mom.”
“You sound…tired,” she says warmly. “Overworked already?”
“Define overworked,” I joke.
She laughs lightly. “Ria says you haven’t answered her texts. She’s threatening to drive up and make you cook for her.”
I snort. “I just had her and Theo over for dinner.”
“That was a month ago.”
I sigh. “Tell her I’m alive.”
“I’ll try, but she won’t believe me unless you call her.” Her tone softens. “Luther, sweetheart…you need balance. The rotations are hard. We know that.”
The gentleness in her voice nearly undoes me.
I stir harder than necessary, the spoon scraping the bottom of the pot.
Dad’s voice enters the background. “Put me on!”
There’s fumbling, then the phone shifts.
“Son,” Dad says, deep and steady.
“Hi, Dad.”
“How’s the Novagene project? I heard their procurement system’s a mess.”
I add another ladle of broth. The risotto thickens, getting creamy. “We’re working on it.”
“Good,” he says. “This one matters. This is the kind of contract that goes in your file when the board looks at future leadership. I trust you, but you can’t coast. Got it?”
“Jacob, stop that. Luther never coasts. Neither of our kids does.” I hear my mother.
We both ignore her.
“Understood,” I reply quietly.
“Good man. And call your sister.”
Mom jumps back on. “We just want to make sure you’re living, not only working.”
Living?
I glance down at the pot, at my hand stirring the risotto.
Isn’t living working?
“Hannah, he lives for his work,” my father says loudly.
He doesn’t intend to be so didactic and bossy; it’s just my father’s version of I believe in you.
Fuck! I did the same with Anouk. I gave her my version of I know you can do better, so do better. I believe in you.
We say our goodnights, and when the line disconnects, the silence hits like a wave.
I turn off the stove and set the pot aside. I taste the risotto. It’s perfect, but my appetite is shot to hell because all I can see is Anouk’s face when I told her she wasn’t good enough to present.
I can still see her shoulders curling inward.
I can still hear her voice shrinking.
I can still feel the burn of her eyes dimming, like I’d reached in and flicked a switch.
And I did that because I’m a fucking teenager who hates that she has a date to the prom, and I want her.
I purse my lips and take a deep breath.
It’s not that trivial, Luther, and you know it.
The truth is that the thought of her belonging to someone who isn’t me drives me nuts.
I don’t want her to be unavailable.