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He pauses. I don’t move a muscle.
Then we both relax into the safety of nonchalance. I can’t tell what Rhett is thinking behind his bored expression and I certainly hope he can say the same about mine. Because “Shit. Shit. Shit. He’s gonna sit down. What the fuck am I going to say? DON’T SAY ANYTHING!” isn’t a great look.
Rhett turns to Wallace and says, “Actually I’ve changed my mind. I’ll wait.”
“Never any other option,” Wallace mutters into his computer. Rhett ignores him and walks over to the waiting area. Despite the abundance of seating, he sits in the chair directly next to mine.
I glance at him, waiting for him to say something. He doesn’t. Instead he looks at me like he’s just said something. I continue to stare at him expectantly, annoyed for some reason that he’s just as good-looking in person as he is on television.
“Rhett,” he finally says, once the silence has gotten a shade’s width of uncomfortable. It’s not an introduction, more of a prompt — a reminder.
I know I should put on the face that I wear with clients toward this guy, but suddenly I find it impossible. It’s not because I’m on edge. I’m frequently on edge at work, and it’s not a good excuse for a bad performance. No, I find I just really don’t want this pretty boy to spend the rest of our working lives expecting me to be giggly around him. He’s a coworker, at best, and someone whose ass I can send to HR, no matter who his mother is.
“Liz,” I respond with zero interest. I examine a painted red fingernail for flaws and then forcibly turn my attention away from him.
“No,” Rhett says.
Surprise is enough to bring me back. I raise an eyebrow. “No?” I ask. “Who am I then?”
His mouth quirks ever so slightly. “I mean, I’m Rhett. As in, Rhett Westing.” The smallest hint of frustration in his voice gives me a thrill.
My other eyebrow joins her fellow. Expectant, they are. So fucking what? they say.
Rhett scowls at my wordless rebuke, but then he switches tactics, going from introductions to conversation as easily as walking through a door. “You’re here to talk to my mother. Me too.”
He kicks his feet out and slouches into the chair. Then he plucks at the collar of his dark blue button down like it’s choking him. The motion surprises me. Most guys in the world of finance wear their suits like an impeccable suit of armor. Rhett is disdainful, acting like an eight-year-old at church.
“And according to that… that bread stick I need to wait like an employee to see my own damn mother.”
Wallace stiffens at the insult but doesn’t engage. Rhett seems disappointed by that too.
I’m not entirely sure how to respond but I feel like ignoring him may not be a good strategy. Otherwise he’s just going to keep talking. “I’ve been waiting for twenty minutes,” I say. Twenty minutes that I absolutely do not have. Can Rhett just cut in line because she’s his mother? Logic says yes; my workload shrieks NO!
“Ah so she does speak.” Rhett smirks at the glare I fling his way. “Calm down, sweetheart. Just having a joke.”
Wow. “Sweetheart?” I question. “My own mother doesn’t call me sweetheart.”
“I wonder why,” Rhett says. Then he laughs. Loudly in the quiet office.
Wallace and I both scowl at him.
“My mother can call me whatever she wants,” I say coolly. “You can call me Liz. Or Ms. Slate. Whichever suits you.”
“Liz Slate,” Rhett says slowly, tasting my name aloud. His grin becomes sly. “That sounds like the name of a schoolteacher. Like the one all the boys fall in love with.”
“Speaking from personal experience?” I ask.
“All boys Catholic school. My teachers were eighty-year-old nuns.” He jerks his head at Ms. Westing’s door. “She denies it, but it was intentional. Even as a kid, I had more charm than most people could handle.”
Ugh. How do I get Rhett Westing’s self-satisfied smirk unseared from my eyelids? I’d lock it away as a masturbatory memory if it weren’t so goddamn smug.
“It’s more like she could tell already that you’d spend two decades dodging sexual harassment lawsuits.”
Rhett’s smirk doesn’t dissipate, but it does wilt. He finally sits up straight and crosses his ankle over his knee. Then he examines me like I’m a new car he wants to buy.
“I suppose I’m obligated to inform you that I’ve never had a single accusation.”
I’m back on my fingernails, mostly because I can’t look him in the eye without laughing. I’ve found a sore spot and since I’m annoyed and on edge, I’m going to poke it. “I hear sometimes billionaires float out hush money,” I muse. “But maybe I’ve been misled. After all, I’m sure nobody would dare use money to influence the legal system.”
