It doesn’t work.
If Kate notices I’m suffering, she doesn’t let on, and given how much she seems to delight in my suffering, I don’t think she’s noticed. She points her thumb over her shoulder, then says, “I’m going to use that small southwest-facing meeting room for the photos, if that’s all right. It’ll be the best light.”
I stare at her, managing only a silent nod.
Finally, she seems to notice that I’m looking at her differently.
She arches an eyebrow. “Just wait for it. Business in the front. Revolution in the back.”
And with that cryptic statement hanging in the air, she spins and wrenches open the door.
My eyes snag on the back of her jumpsuit, spotting the classic Rosie the Riveter icon printed across the top, except in this version, Rosie holds a sledgehammer in her raised arm; below her reads, the letters cracked and compressed like shattered rock, smash the patriarchy.
When the door slips shut, I let out the laugh I’ve been holding in.
? NINETEEN ?
Kate
“Saving the best for last?” Christopher eases the door to the meeting room closed behind him.
“You caught me,” I deadpan.
As the door shuts, the hairs on my neck stand on end. I glance over my shoulder and catch his gaze on me, then darting away. Christopher clears his throat and rakes a hand through his hair.
“I see you’ve noticed Rosie,” I tell him, assuming that’s where his eyes were.
He gives me a wry smile that makes my insides fizz like a just-popped bottle of champagne. “If you were hoping to scandalize me or anyone here with your fuck-the-patriarchy sentiments, Katerina, I’m sorry to disappoint you.”
“Meaning what?”
He eases onto the stool I gesture toward, the one I’ve had everyone sit on to take their photo. “Meaning lots of things. Women’s rights are human rights,” he says. “Diversity and inclusion isn’t something you phone in for brownie points but work your ass off to actually achieve. We don’t just invest in companies committed to that ethos, we embody it ourselves. Verona Capital offers its employees fully paid insurance covering and affirming their right to all procedures and medications their bodies need, extended paid sick leave and work-from-home accommodations, menstrual leave, extended parental leave, subsidized daycare and pre-K, zero tolerance for harassment, an ADA-certified accessible workplace, dedicated lactation rooms, gender-neutral bathrooms . . . You get the idea, I think.”
Lifting my camera, I plant my forearms against my nipples, which are rock hard. Goddamn, that shit turns me on.
“Well,” I manage, scowling as I flick through my camera screen’s display, not even seeing the photos I’ve taken, “it’s the least you could do. It’s what everyone should do.”
“Completely agree.”
I clench my teeth. Great. Not only is he making me horny with his progressivism—he’s agreeing with me.
“You seem flushed, Kate.”
I shrug, then clear my throat. “Just a little warm.”
His grin is slow and satisfied. He knows exactly how he’s affected me, and it’s so damn irritating. “I can open a window,” he offers.
“I’m fine.”
I’m clutching my camera so hard it’s going to crack. I let it drop around my neck, telling myself to cool down. So what if he can tell what he said turned me on? Turning on people is as unremarkable to Christopher as the sun lighting up the sky.
Which is just one of the many ways we are so deeply different. Sex is effortless and central in his life, his expertise and enjoyment of it a given. Sex is anything but effortless for me, my attempts to enjoy it fraught with misunderstanding and disappointment.
Christopher leans in, elbows on his knees, and clasps his hands together, bringing him closer to me, a shock jolting me back to the present. Our eyes meet.
A flush sweeps through me as his gaze holds mine. Maybe it’s because it’s so rare for me, but the intensity of this sexual pull I feel toward him nearly knocks the air out of me. I stare back at him, struggling to make sense of the weighty warmth settling in my breasts, deep in my belly, and between my thighs.
I haven’t liked Christopher in a long time. But that doesn’t mean I haven’t known him. It doesn’t mean I haven’t noticed him. Yes, he’s familiar, his scent, his voice, his presence—something I’ve known my whole life—but shouldn’t it take more? A lifetime of existing in my sphere, a few days being nice to me, and my body’s throwing itself at him. It’s unacceptable. And frankly, it’s unsettling.