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Resigning would’ve been better.
At least then, her reputation would still be intact.
She could’ve found another job. She could’ve called on friends and landed a freelance photography jig. Instead, she’d been blackballed for doing the right thing. For standing up for herself. For protecting others. For hoping to save her coworkers the same kind of aggravation and heartache.
Stupid move. Far too idealistic in a world gone to hell.
Men who occupied corner offices excelled at covering up wrong-doing. In a time when shareholders ruled and bottom lines prevailed, she hadn’t stood a chance. Big bonuses always won in the end.
Heavy-hearted, Truly walked down the corridor and pushed through a swinging door into the kitchen. Navy blue cabinets. Carrera marble countertops. White, gray, and cream mosaic backsplash. Six-burner gas stove, and vintage appliances with curved corners and charming steel handles, the white enamel as glossy as the day it rolled off the assembly line. A large table held court in the center of the room, eight ladder-back chairs stationed around it.
The instant warmth, the ready welcome, helped dissolve some of her disillusionment.
The past didn’t matter anymore.
She washere. HR and the man who wronged her werethere. No sense wallowing in what she couldn’t change. Especially with a new crisis on the horizon and Westvane casting a dark shadow across her light-filled kitchen.
Skirting the table, she headed for a long bank of cabinetry. As she moved through the kitchen, information filtered in, telling where to find things. Odd, but all of an instant, she knew the location of the pantry, which cabinet held the booze, along with the contents of the old-school refrigerator. The house offered up the intel without her having to do any exploring. The layout and contents simply appeared in her head as if by magic.
A nifty trick.
One she appreciated at the moment. It put her that much closer to the drink she needed.
Stopping in front of the liquor cabinet, she caught a glimpse of Westvane from the corner of her eye. He lurked in the doorway, as though unsure he wanted to enter. She read the hesitation on his face. His body language echoed his uncertainty and…
All of a sudden, she felt better. The exhaustion lifted, raising her spirits a bit. Even Slayers, it seemed, suffered from a lack of confidence sometimes.
The realization made him seem human, even though she knew he wasn’t. He’d come from somewhere else — another world. It would behoove her to remember that tidbit. Trusting him didn’t qualify as a good idea.
With a flick, she opened the door and reached inside. She grabbed what she wanted — what the house told her would be there: a bottle of fifty-year-old Glenfiddich and two heavy crystal glasses. Turning, she set the tumblers down on the table. Heavy crystal clanked against wood as she glanced at Westvane. Cracking the seal on the whiskey, she tipped her chin in his direction. “Want a drink? I know I could use one.”
His attention slid from her to the bottle, then back again. “You’re inviting me to your table?”
“Yeah. Game?”
An odd look crossed his face before he nodded. “Pour, Door Master. Make mine a double.”
Tossing the cap, Truly smiled. Well, all right then. Let the games begin.
Pouring equal amounts into both glasses, she pulled a chair away from the table. As she planted her butt in it, she pointed to the other across from her. “Sit, Westvane. I won’t bite.”
“Shame,” he murmured, teasing her.
She rolled her eyes and picked up her glass. “Start talking.”
“You’re not tired?”
“Honestly?”
He took a seat. “The truth always works best.”
“I’m exhausted,” she said, hating to admit it, knowing she couldn’t hide it. No sense trying. Exhaustion lived in her, was etched in her bones… and probably written all over her face. “But I need to know. Ignorance is not bliss, Westvane. And anyway, I won’t sleep if I’m stressed out.”
“Wise,” he said, palming his glass.
“Or stupid. Jury’s still out.”
Something flickered in his dark eyes. He shot his double in one go.
