Chapter 8
Maren
“He wants you to help pick the next supply clerk?” Brooke seems as suspicious as I am over whatever Trevor is up to. “Why?”
“Probably just to annoy me.” That seems to be the reason behind everything Trevor does involving me. He knows he gets under my skin, and just can’t resist the urge to worm around while he’s in there.
“You don’t have to help him.” Brooke gives me the out I knew she would offer. “I’m sure he can figure it out himself.”
So am I. Trevor might be annoying and aggravating and a huge pain in my ass, but he’s not an idiot. He’s very, very good at his job. Which means, he probably doesn’t actually even need my help. He probably only invited me because I bitched about the temp.
“Actually, I think I’m going to go.” Not because Trevor asked me to—definitely not that—but because it’s an opportunity to annoy him the way he annoys me. “And he can’t be mad about whatever happens. He literally came and asked for it.”
Brooke’s eyes close as she tips her head back toward the ceiling. “Can’t you two just call a truce or something?” She drops her head to one side, eyes meeting mine. “I get that he’s obnoxious, but you instigate him at every opportunity.”
I scoff. “And he doesn’t instigate me?” I swear the man knows exactly how to piss me off and doesn’t miss an opportunity to do it.
“I didn’t say he didn’t.” Brooke’s tone is as calm and patient as she is. Probably why she’s still my friend. “But one of you has to be the adult in this situation.”
“And it has to be me?” I get that she doesn’t fully understand what she’s asking me to do.
Even Brooke doesn’t know the full extent of what I went through as a kid, but I’ve been an adult for forever.
Even when I was five, I was making grown up choices and carrying grown up responsibilities. I’m fucking tired.
And I’m fucking done.
“Sorry to burst your bubble, but that’s not going to happen.” I grab a notepad and pen—the same one Trevor tried to steal—off my desk. “If he doesn’t have to be an adult, neither do I.”
I turn away, making it all of five steps before spinning back to my best friend. “I love you.” It sounds just as aggressive as everything else I’ve said, but I’m not mad at her. I’m mad at Trevor.
That’s probably not super true either. I’m mad at my mom, and years of therapy have proved it’s probably going to stay that way.
Brooke gives me a soft smile. “I love you too.”
There’s no but. No qualifier. No limit put on her affection. And it makes my throat tight. I’ve never had unconditional love. Barely had love at all. Did I ever expect to get it from my best friend/boss? No freaking way.
Do I know what to do with it now that I have it? Also no. Yet another thing therapy has taught me is unlikely to change.
I can talk about my childhood till I’m blue in the face. Analyze it from an adult perspective. Understand why things ended up the way they did. But I can’t get over it, and I don’t think I should be asked to.
I manage to give Brooke what might qualify as a smile before turning away and marching my crabby ass to the room Trevor uses for interviews.
I was hired as a temp and then Brooke brought me on directly, so I’ve never been in the hot seat here. But I did stock the room plenty of times during my first few months here. And it’s weird to be walking in for a reason besides replenishing coffee pods and notepads.
I’m a little surprised when I enter and it’s only Ruth inside. That prick pawned this task off on the two of us? She has her computer set up in front of her, and gives me the basic smile she regularly offers in greeting.
I really like Ruth. She’s helped bring balance to the new group of friends I’ve found myself part of.
Up until she arrived, I was the only one who wasn’t a bucket of fucking sunshine.
Mariah is the sweetest, friendliest, kindest person ever.
Brooke is on the quiet side, but she’s still genuinely a sweetheart.
Then there’s me. A bad tempered gremlin made of nothing but trauma and spite.
Ruth is somewhere in the middle. She’s serious. Calm and collected. Smart and hard-working. But also won’t hesitate to put someone in their place when they’re being a dipshit.
I expect she does that regularly, considering who she works for.
Pen and pad in hand, I lower into the seat next to her. “You got dragged into this too?”
“I take notes at all these things. Otherwise Trevor ends up with nothing but three words on a notepad and he doesn’t have any clue what a single one of them means.
” She looks me over, one brow angling in a way that has me worried she’s going to ask why in the hell I was fucking Trevor in Brooke’s bathroom.
Instead, she turns back to her computer. “I like your outfit.”
I look down at the black skirt, black tights, and the plum-colored short-sleeved sweater I thrifted last week. “You don’t think it looks depressing?” I can’t keep the sarcasm out of my tone.
It’s what most people say about my primarily black wardrobe.
I’m guessing it’s because they never had to figure out how to look like they have more clothes than they actually do.
It was a lesson I learned as soon as I was old enough to get a job.
No one notices you wear the same pants every day if they’re black.
As long as you switch out one item, they think it’s a whole new ensemble.
It’s a strategy I’ve continued to stick with even though I now make enough money I don’t have to be as careful with how I spend every cent.
Not because I wouldn’t love a new wardrobe, but because I’m not the only one I have to think about.
Zara’s clothes are more important than mine, and she grows out of them really fucking fast. So I still buy as much black as possible, and get as much of it from the thrift store as I can.
If Ruth picks up on my sarcasm, she doesn’t mention it. Instead, she just shrugs. “Black goes with everything.”
It’s another reason I like Ruth. I don’t know the full extent of her history, but she seems to get where I’m coming from more than Mariah and Brooke do. Probably because she’s also spent time as a single parent.
The atmosphere inside the room shifts, and I don’t have to turn to know why. I can feel Trevor’s presence like a wrecking ball. It slams into me, heavy and hard.
Literally, on Saturday.
I press my thighs together, hoping I can avoid any sort of a reaction my lady parts might try to have over the memory of how decent he ended up being.
Because it doesn’t matter if he was the best sex I’ve ever had—a fact I would never admit to anyway—I can’t have sex with him again.
I’m not interested in a booty call kind of situation.
Especially with a man I don’t even like.
His gaze flickers to Ruth before leveling on me. I don’t like the way I know what he’s thinking, and I definitely don’t like how close it probably is to what I was just thinking.
I expect him to sit at the head of the table, but he drops his leather bound portfolio in front of the chair right beside me. Because of course he does.
He doesn’t sit down, however. Once his pen has dropped to the laminated surface, he goes straight to the coffee maker, popping a cup into place before selecting a pod and setting it to run.
He keeps his back to me the whole time, and I glare at it.
Scowling at the width of his shoulders and the graceful way he moves as he dumps a few sweetened creamers in before stirring the concoction and popping on a lid.
I’m well-versed in glaring at his back, and I know just when to look away before he turns around so he doesn’t catch me giving him the stink eye. I keep my gaze averted as he eases into the chair next to me.
But then the cup of coffee he made ends up directly in front of me, and my eyes snap to where he sits. “I’m not babysitting your coffee.”
“It’s not for me.” He flips open his portfolio, looking at my pen a second before grabbing his. “I don’t like that creamer. It’s for you.”
I know what to do when Trevor is an asshole. I’ve had lots of practice. But I don’t know what to do when Trevor is being nice. It confuses me. And when I get confused, I get angry.
“How do you know how I like my coffee?” I grab the cup, because I actually could use a little caffeinated pick-me-up. “Are you stalking me?”
Trevor’s spine stiffens the tiniest bit as his hand freezes over the pad of paper attached to his portfolio. “Why would you ask me that?”
“Why would you give me coffee?” I take a sip, hating how perfect it is. “It’s weird.”
“You’re weird.” His comeback is as childish as our bickering normally is.
“You’re being weirder.” I seal my lips together as one of the security guards brings in the man who must be our first applicant.
Trevor motions to the chair across from us.
“Have a seat.” He pulls a resume from his portfolio and hands it to me, continuing to give the man his full attention the whole time.
“This is Maren Lucas and Ruth Wagner.” He motions to each of us in turn.
“I’m Trevor. We’re happy you could come in today. ”
Trevor is really good at his job. I’m certainly never going to argue he’s not great at what he does.
But it’s strange seeing him fully in his element.
He sounds so professional and polite. And it’s so different from how he is with me, I want to be pissed about it.
Angry that he’s never treated me like that.
Trevor and I have clashed from the beginning, and I honestly can’t remember why.
There was something about him that just irritated me from the start.
I try to focus on the questions he’s asking the man across from me, but my brain shifts gears, attempting to remember what it was about Trevor I didn’t like. What got us started off on the wrong foot.
Was it his arrogance? His bossy nature? Do I just have a problem with authority figures?
After only a few minutes, Trevor is thanking the man, shaking his hand, and sending him on his way.
After candidate number one is gone, Trevor turns to me. “I think he’ll be a better fit for the warehouse.” He lifts his brows. “Unless you like him for the supply room.”
I wasn’t paying a whole lot of attention, but I’m not going to admit that, so I just nod. “Warehouse is probably better.”
Dammit.
Did I just accidentally agree with Trevor on something?
Technically, yes. But it wasn’t on purpose.
I just didn’t know enough to disagree with him.
Crap. I need to make sure that doesn’t happen again.
Because I don’t like feeling as if Trevor and I are on the same page about anything.
I still don’t remember why I feel that way, but I’m sure I’ll figure it out eventually.
We go through three more people. Two more men, and one woman. None of them seem to have the right combination of organizational and people skills that would make them well-suited for the supply coordinator position.
As the door closes behind the most recent applicant, Trevor turns to me. “We’ve only got one more. Hopefully they’re what you’re looking for.”
I take a swig of the coffee he made me—because I don’t know what to say back to him if we’re not fighting—and nearly choke on the mouthful when the security guard shows in a beautiful woman with dimples and shiny blonde hair.
She’s dressed in super cute, cream-colored pants and a feminine, pale pink top.
Her expression is warm and friendly as she sits down.
It’s like staring in the opposite mirror, and I can’t help but notice the way she gives Trevor all her attention as he starts asking questions.
Because of course she does. He’s good-looking, well-dressed, and smells nice.
He’s also clearly got a position of power here in the company, so it’s probably not difficult for her to assume he’s loaded.
And it’s fine. It’s not like I like him, so she might as well. Someone should. But it would probably be more fitting if the someone who liked him was more of a bridge troll.
As she runs through her qualifications, it becomes clear she probably is a good fit for my previous position. Possibly a better fit than I even was.
When the interview is over, I stare at how long she shakes Trevor’s hand and the way she seems to bat her lashes at him.
When she’s gone, he turns to me like he has for the previous interviews. “I think she’s perfect. Exactly what we’re looking for.”
Something weird happens in my stomach when he calls her perfect. Something hot and uncomfortable. Something that makes my already questionable temperament even worse.
“Of course you do.” I don’t know why I’m so pissed about this. She’s actually exactly what we’re looking for. Probably in more ways than one for Trevor.
Trevor’s brows lift. “Did you not look at her resume?”
I don’t want to be in this room anymore. Not with him. Not with that woman’s resume.
And definitely not with the weird thing in my stomach.
“I have work to do.” I shove up from my chair, sending it wheeling across the room behind me.
Grabbing my notebook and the remainder of my coffee—because now I really fucking need caffeine—I step around his chair.
“Hire whoever you want.” I practically run from the room, trying to get away from the churning in my gut.
But I don’t leave it behind. It sticks right with me as I storm down the hall to my desk, plopping into my seat before dropping my forehead to the surface.
What is wrong with me? Why do I care about her shiny hair or cute dimples or perfect teeth? I should be happy we’ll have someone who might be able to clean up the mess the last guy made of the supply room.
I close my eyes, taking a deep breath as I stab two fingers into my belly, trying to physically force away the strange sensation swirling around inside.
The sound of something hitting the surface of my desk has me sitting up straight, sucking in a sharp breath of surprise.
Trevor is sitting on the edge of my desk, my forgotten pen between the two of us. His smile makes it seem like I’ve done something that makes him very happy. “I thought about stealing it, but figured you might try to murder me.”