I watched her, the way she gestured with her hands, the authority of her speaking voice, how articulate she was. She was impressive. I nodded my head in agreement. Kim chimed in.
“We need to clarify and expand the definition, as Cat suggests, and try to keep complaints of this nature private, both to protect the victim and to keep the public image of the company from being corroded. You can’t expect to recruit excellent staff if you’re known as the sexual harassment company or the corporation that can’t seem to solve this workplace problem. You don’t want stockholders or potential employees to associate your brand with the words sexual harassment at all that’s one reason I am against a lawsuit. You think you’ll be a white knight and swing the sword of justice or something, but all you’re going to do is dirty your hands with this, Brent,” she said.
“I see your point, and I’ll discuss it with legal before doing anything rash, but I’m confident that stockholders and the board of directors as well would weigh in on this in favor of punishing wrongdoing and taking a stand.”
“Excuse me, I have to take this call,” Kim said, stepping out of the office.
“I can’t believe you let her use her phone in a meeting,” Cat said mischievously.
“She’s a senior department head. There are perks to that level of achievement,” I replied easily.
“No reprimand? No demand to know what she’s talking about?” she said cheekily, “or do you reserve public embarrassment for the new hires?”
“No, it’s a gift I extend to all my staff. If you can’t stand up for yourself, you don’t belong at Astley Corp. It’s no place for the weak-willed.”
“So it’s a weeding out process? If I had burst into tears, would I have lost my job?”
“Not immediately, but you would have been under suspicion of being too delicate to survive in the corporate world.”
“Did I pass the test?” she countered.
“You’re still here, aren’t you? In a meeting in the executive suite, being asked to consult on a heavy matter of employee misconduct.”
“Yes, I am.”
“I think we should continue the discussion over lunch. Would you care to join me?” I said. I admitted to myself that I wanted very much for her to say yes.
“Why, Mr. Waltham, are you harassing me in the workplace? Suggesting that my privileged spot at the table on this important topic is contingent upon my willingness to have a private ‘lunch’ with you?” she asked.
“Absolutely not,” I said, stepping back behind my desk so it was between us, “It would seem I need retraining myself. I had no intention of coercing or intimidating you into—“
“Oh my god, you should see your face! I was joking!” she laughed.
Her entire face lit with amusement. Her laugh wasn’t musical or dainty—it was loud and full-throated and husky. I was arrested by the sound of it, the vision of her so joyful and mischievous.
“Well played,” I acknowledged.
She dropped a curtsey and rolled her eyes, “I accept the lunch invitation. I’m starving.”
I was surprised she agreed to go. I was downright astonished she had joked about harassment seconds after a deadly serious conversation about the same subject. I was thunderstruck that I had met someone as irreverent as I was.
“You know, joking about serious subjects can get you into trouble at work,” I told her.
“I’m pretty good at reading a room,” she remarked rather too wisely for my taste. She was so young, so inexperienced to see through me so well.
“That you are,” I admitted, “after you, Miss Sherman.”
She led the way to the elevator. As the doors slid shut, she gave me a sidelong glance, “Easily one of the top three elevators,” she said.
Part of me knew she was joking. Some other part of me stepped out of the shadows and wanted to say something about knowing how to make it her number one elevator in history, but I would be damned if I’d overstep boundaries with an employee. So I kept uncomfortably to my side of the elevator and willed it to descend faster so I could be free of this confined space where I could have easily reached out to touch her, to lay claim to her.
Damn my thoughts and urges. Damn Kim for having a personal call. Damn me for suggesting lunch. It was going to be an awkward hour that much was certain.
7
Cat
He opened my car door.
Probably the last man who opened a car door for me was my daddy. He did that the day I graduated high school—drove me right up to the gym door, stopped, got out of the driver’s side and came around and opened my door like I was a lady, not a seventeen year old in confetti pink lip gloss wearing flip flops with her cap and gown.
So when Brent Waltham, who had a literal driver of his own, paused and opened my door before going around to get in the car himself, it caught me off guard. I wasn’t expecting him to be chivalrous. He had won me over pretty instantly by treating me as an equal so acting gentlemanly, treating me with a type of consideration that underlined my femininity made me feel---girly. Flattered and like if I had a lace fan in an old fashioned movie, I’d be fluttering that bitch for all I was worth.
Riding with him was basically torture. We sat as far apart as the back seat would allow. I fastened my safety belt and sat with my ankles crossed, hands primly in my lap. I remarked on the weather and how nice it was not to have to call an Uber. He said that it was supposed to rain sometime after six. We lapsed into silence. He was making and unmaking fists. When my eyes drifted to his hands, I saw that they were white at the knuckles. His smooth bronze skin gone pale because he clenched his fingers so tightly.
“You okay?” I inquired.
“Hmm?” he said as though deep in thought.
“Your knuckles are white,” I pointed out helpfully.
“Oh,” he said, a little abashed, and unclenched his fists with effort. “I suppose the Maxwell incident has me on edge. It’s a difficult topic because it makes me angry personally. I pride myself on maintaining a pragmatic and professional stance. Not to involve emotion.”
“Okay, I watched Tough Guise in my gender communications class. I know pretending to have no emotions or compartmentalizing them is a common thing, but I don’t understand it. How do you not feel things? When Kim told me just the basics of what happened with Maxwell, it made my skin crawl. I wanted to throw up. I wanted to punch the guy in the face repeatedly. I was sick and angry and just disgusted so if you felt that way or any other way about it, it’s human. Why are we asking men not to be human and feel things?”
“It isn’t a lack of emotions, it’s a restriction of them. Feelings are something private and aren’t expressed in public that’s how I have always experienced it.”
“That makes more sense, but I still couldn’t live like that. It’s such a harmful stereotype. I mean, guys can show anger or indignation in public, but that’s about it. What happened to joy or grief or passion?”
“Those are private.”
“That’s just—archaic,” I said with a light laugh as we took out our menus.
We had a table by a window in a very nice restaurant. It was beautiful and elegant, but not uncomfortably fancy. There were green plants in the corners, a small cactus on each table, everything else cream-colored and crisp.