9. Evilla

Chapter nine

Evilla

" H ey, I'm not trying to gossip, but have you noticed anything off about Mr. Montfield?"

Mabel Oxford leans against the counter in the lunchroom. She's heating up a bowl of soup that smells incredibly divine. It's spicy and meaty, and I wish I had the cooking skills to create something like that. Soup just isn't the same unless it's homemade.

"I'm not trying to gossip either, but what do you mean?" I've noticed. I'm just surprised other people have too. Then again, I think it's fairly obvious.

"He was so happy the first week here, but now he looks like a well-used mop, and I mean that in the kindest way. He's still making so many great changes. I'm so glad he's the one who bought this company and not some ogre who has a secret hate for pudding. That or someone who just can't translate their great ideas into workable strategies, or one of those people who thinks they're way above everyone else. Or worse, a self-serving money- hungry power-eating trash bin who only cares about profit and doesn't give a shite about the people below him working their butts off to get that margin."

"I kind of see that," I say.

"I think something's wrong. Maybe it's his other businesses."

"How do you know about those?" I try to ask as offhandedly as I can.

Mabel looks like a model. Wavy blonde hair, makeup straight off of one of those how to apply makeup to your face to look like a kickass boss bitch tutorials, and all the vintage clothes for days. She's a thrifter, too—an absolute fiend for finding vintage in the wild—and she wears it so much better than I do.

I don't get jealous of other people the way some people do. If that stems from insecurity, then maybe I've just never had that in me. Rather than be jealous of how pretty Mabel is and how great her fashion sense is, I look to her for inspiration. I'm not really into competing with other people for anything because I find it so freaking tedious.

"I just looked him up as soon as I knew what his name was. I was surprised he was so young to be buying a corporation of this size, but I guess he's already got an impressive portfolio of other companies he owns." She opens the microwave, stirs her soup of the gods, and puts it back in for another minute. "Do you think maybe something went wrong there? I don't know how he can run all of these things. It must be so stressful."

"I'm not sure." If I'm any more noncommittal, it's going to be very obvious that I'm committal.

"He'll likely just leave this place to his CEO and COO, president or vice-president, or whatever structure he decides to implement here soon enough. It's kind of weird to have him in meetings on and off anyway."

"What do you mean? Mike and his family were constantly sitting in on meetings."

"Yeah, but they started the place, and Mike was the CEO. It's different when you build it from the ground up. Mr. Montfield bought this place because either he had a bee in his business bonnet about owning a pudding empire or he thought it had the potential to make some great profits over the years. Well, that, or he's money laundering and thought pudding would be a good cover."

I see the way her lips turn up. She's rocking a gorgeous shade of red, and don't ask me how she gets it to stay flawless the way she does because red on me gets everywhere except my lips. "Probably not money laundering," I say with a laugh.

"Anyway, I think something's wrong. How should we bring it up without sounding weird?"

"Are you asking me because you think I have great ideas, or…"

"Okay." She gives in without a fight. "I might have heard something about you two dating."

Fuck. Oh, no. No, no, no.

"We're more like good friends. We might have dabbled in a single date, but sometimes it's better to just stay friendly."

"Oh my gosh!" Her squeal is as spicy as her soup smells. The microwave dinged sometime ago, and neither of us noticed.

I lunge for it and open the door. "Shh," I admonish. "I don't want everyone knowing, especially because it's not really a thing. And even if it were, workplace stuff is so…it's just not good."

"Wait. Was it your idea for him to restructure the place the way he did? Because that had insider intuition written all over it."

"No. It was all him." Lies, but this one is a good one. I don't need any credit for having a great idea. I'm not the one who made gigantic sacrifices and went through a lot of trouble to make it happen. "How many other people know about this?"

"Hardly anyone. I might have just been walking down the hall at the right moment when you guys were in the reception area with his mom. She's super sweet, by the way. At least she looks like she is. It sounded like she hadn't met you before, though."

"Mr. Montfield and I met at a fundraiser a while ago." Yeah, using his last name really makes this sound more convincingly casual. "Almost a year ago. We've known about each other since then, but it's more like a casual friendship. I haven't met his parents."

Mabel gives me a strange look as she slips her soup bowl onto a plate so it's not too hot to handle. "I didn't know casual friends were a thing."

"I mean, we're friends, and we're all happy and nice when we see each other, but we're not friends from childhood or anything." I am not good at this. Not good at all.

Mabel just laughs, and it's not unkindly. She's one of a kind in so many ways, and one of those is her ability to see something and intuitively know she shouldn't tell anyone else. Even if she hated me, she wouldn't have divulged something she didn't consider her business. She came to me with her worries today because she has a big heart, and she's concerned about someone she thought I was dating.

But I've since totally disabused her of that notion. Completely. Without a doubt.

"We're not really dating," I reiterate. Again. I have noticed that Mont hasn't looked so hot in the happy pants lately. Correction: He's looked every bit as hot as he always has. I mean, temperature hot. On the happiness scale, though, that reading is subzero. "But I'll check on him. I'll make sure he's doing okay."

"I just didn't want to notice and not say anything to you. I wanted to talk to him, but I'd feel silly bringing it up. I think it would only make him uncomfortable. It's important to check on our friends, whether they're happy or sad, especially when things don't appear like they're okay. Even rich people have problems, and they have feelings like everyone else. Maybe it's a mental health thing, and that's something that should never be ignored. If he trusts you, maybe he'd be willing to share with you."

"I'll talk to him right away," I tell her.

"Sounds good."

"Mabel?" I call out as she turns around. She cranks her head over her shoulder and raises a perfect brow. Literally, they're perfect because she pencils them on. Or in. I don't even know. I just know she does it because they aren't natural hair if you look closely. They don't go all wonky like mine do at the ends. I wish I had the courage to just wax mine off and draw them on, except I suck at makeup, so…not going to happen.

"Hmm?" she murmurs.

"Did you make that soup?" I ask.

"I did!"

"Can I pay you to make me some?"

"Oh, goodness, no. I'll make you some for free. You don't have to pay me."

"But the ingredients cost money."

"How about I make it for you and give you a receipt for the groceries, and then we call it even?"

"If you're sure. But your time and the electricity and stuff isn't free."

"Hey, we're friends." She winks at me with her equally incredible lashes. They're extensions. She's told me where she goes before, but I've also never been brave enough to try it either. "And I know for a fact that some of the improvements to this place came from your suggestions. I don't care how you guys met or what you're doing in your personal life, but I know that even if you were dating a man rich beyond everyone's wildest dreams, you'd still be exactly you. Don't worry. When I looked him and his family up, I found they're pretty normal for rich people. They don't even have a lot of stuff. I looked at his parents' house and his house and his other business locations, and they're all so normal. He seems like a pretty down-to-earth guy, too. I meant it when I said this place lucked out."

Then, she disappears with her soup, humming away. I can't whistle, and I can barely hum, but she makes it sound like a lovely art form.

I'm alone in the lunchroom. With a soft sigh, I pull my packed sandwich out of the fridge. Tuna, mayo, and celery today. It's not magic, and it's not crab legs, but it fills the void. Yes, I dare to eat tuna at work. It doesn't stink nearly as much as people think. Not if it's refrigerated and consumed quickly. Cold fish doesn't have much of a smell to me.

Shit, I hope it doesn't have much of a smell. Maybe I've grown so accustomed to it that I can't detect the foul fishiness.

Now I'm worried about it.

I put the sandwich back in the fridge. I'll eat it for dinner. I packed an apple, some cheese and crackers, plus carrot sticks. I also have a stash of snacks in my desk drawer if I'm starved.

I take the rest of my lunch, but I don't head back to my desk. I haven't talked to Mont in four days. Not since our crabtastic get-to-know-you dinner. I was surprised at his change of heart at the end. Surprised and maybe a little proud. I'm not sure what his story is, and I didn't have the chance to ask enough questions at the crab place before he came out with the decision to tell his mom that we're not dating at all.

I'm not even sure if he's in his office, but when I sidle up, the door is cracked, and I can see his all-black-clad form in there. I didn't look at the sheet he handed me, but I bet black isn't his favorite color. It's just his favorite wardrobe hue. And why not? If I looked that good in black, I'd be wearing it all the freaking time too. Spoiler alert: I look like a washed-out ghost in black. Sorry to all ghosts. They're hot right now, and everyone likes ghosts. But what does everyone not like? Canned mushrooms? Maybe it's just me, but they're pretty pale and sketchy.

I don't have to knock on the partially closed door because Mont looks up right away. No wonder Mabel could see there was something going on. He's not just wearing black. It's wearing him right down to the dark circles under his eyes. He doesn't look like he'd be in the mood to crack a smile. He doesn't have that serious asshole set going on in his jaw, either. Maybe it's his eyes, or maybe it's the way his shoulders bow in over the desk. He's not even sitting up straight, and it's like he's been defeated in some way.

I step in and close the door most of the way. I leave it open just a crack. Most people leave to go out for lunch, and I'll be quiet anyway.

I walk up to his desk, aware that in this office that has yet to be decorated, I look like a wild child with my flowered vintage blouse, bright blue skirt, and matching blue boots. He leans back in his chair, but it doesn't mean he looks relaxed. He looks on edge. As on edge as I'm going to be, broaching this subject.

My mom has this saying, and it literally annoys the hell out of me. Why the long face, Ace? I guess it's so obnoxious because it doesn't make any sense. But I find myself asking anyway. "Someone just pointed out to me that you look unhappy to the extreme. I don't want to grill you about whether you've done it, but did you talk to your mom yet? If you haven't, and this is what extreme anxiety looks like, then you should for sure have a wingman with you to get it done and over with."

Mont closes his laptop very carefully. He looks at it and not at me. "I talked to her."

"You did?"

"I did."

"What did she say?" Probably nothing good if he looks like a well-used mop in the kindest way. That's what Mabel called him. I love puppies, and his mom would never kick puppies. But he isn't a puppy. Dear sweet crab legs, no. He is a full-grown man. One that my body lights up at the sight of or at the thought of, and lately, there's been lots of thoughts of and lots of lighting up, and it's starting to drive me a little bit batty.

"She was horrified, then a little mad, then sad, and then the dreaded disappointed mom was a thing." His dark eyes meet mine, burning all the way to my core. "And then she asked me questions I didn't have the answers to. That was the worst part."

"Like what?" My imagination is going pretty ham at the moment.

"She wanted to know what I wanted. Out of life."

That's kind of the mother of all questions, no pun intended. "Does anyone really know that?"

He shrugs. At least he's looking at me now, which makes my stomach flutter when it shouldn't. "When I told her I didn't know, she wanted to know what was so wrong with helping me to figure it out and be happy. She's my mom, and all she's ever wanted to do is help."

"There's helping, and then there's too much helping."

"I tried to explain that, but I'm her only child. To her, it's like telling someone who loves crab legs that there's such a thing as too many crab legs."

He's got me there. There can't be such a thing as too many crab legs. Never, never, never, with a side of lush, meaty, seafoody crabiness. "I was going to ask what you thought about a new pudding flavor. Crab legs and garlic butter. I know everyone thinks pudding is sweet, but we've done some wild flavors before, and savory is a huge thing. I think it could be a bestseller."

He can tell I'm just trying to cheer him up, and I don't know how to do that without changing the subject. "If people are willing to eat crabanana splits, I could see how you'd be right," he murmurs.

"Maybe we should have tried one. Market research," I say with a small laugh.

"I didn't fancy a trip to the ER."

"But you were brave enough to come clean with your mom. If you can do that, then you can do anything."

"I feel like I can do nothing at the moment." Shit. He looks like he's sagging into his chair again. Defeat. It doesn't look right on this man. He's allowed to feel sad or hurt or question things, but defeat? I don't like it at all. "I feel like I'm stuck."

"Stuck here?"

"Stuck in life. Going nowhere. I feel like I have so much of what other people want, and when you have money, everyone wants your life because they think it must be perfectly uncomplicated and problem-free, but I can't seem to get it together in the way I should be getting it together. Business-wise, it's good, and I've made great choices. I feel like I can be proud of everything I've accomplished or had help accomplishing because I for sure did have help. Not just at the start from family money but from everyone who has ever worked at one of my companies along the way. I have great teams, and awesome people make a huge difference. I would never take all the credit. When I say I'm proud, I mean it that way. But personally? I just feel like I've hit this wall. I've been at this stupid wall for ages."

"You've had relationships in the past?"

One set of honey-gold eyes track back to mine. They're not guarded, but they are a little bit narrow. He can't see where I'm going with this. I can't see where I'm going with this. It's not like I have much experience myself. I'm definitely no love guru. In fact, I'm the opposite. I'm the get-dumped-for-a-woman-my-fiancé-just-met-the-day-before guru.

"Not long ones. Nothing I would say even skirted close to love. They seem to always end because I'm told I don't know what it is I want. It's a common theme with me as the common denominator. And they're probably right."

"You have friends," I comment.

"I do have friends, yes."

Friends made all the difference for me when I was stuck. I don't know what I would have done without Gen. I wouldn't be the same me I am now if she hadn't been there for me growing up, as a teenager, and now as an adult.

"I think if you're facing down a wall, then maybe you should do the things you normally do that make you happy." I'm not a good person to give advice, though. I didn't do jack shit after Jeff left me with a ring on my finger, a head full of broken dreams, and a heart full of misery. "Hang out with friends. Go out and do things. You might meet someone, or you might not, but you shouldn't pressure yourself into it. No one should be pressured into that. Your mom might have been trying to help, but setting up dates someone doesn't want to go on in the first place, or maybe both parties don't want to go on, isn't going to remedy the singleness situation. That's just applying pressure in such a way that all you're going to get is coal. Or diamonds. I can't remember which one it is. Maybe neither. Maybe it's something combustible, like a baking soda and vinegar volcano waiting to explode."

"Baking soda and vinegar." His tiny smile causes a not-so-tiny reaction in my ovaries. "I haven't thought about that since I was a kid."

"Do rich people make regular science fair projects?"

"Sure. We just use really expensive vinegar and really expensive baking soda."

We both chuckle. And a chuckle is almost a laugh. It means we're getting there.

My heart flutters when Mont looks the tiniest bit like a not-so- well-used mop. Even if he literally were a well-used mop, he'd probably be the hottest one in the building.

"I made that donation to the rat rescue. I looked it up after you sent me the link. You're right. They look like they do good work. And the rats are pretty cute."

"They're adorable." I try to show I'm grateful for it, or at least that my friends will be, but it's hard not to show anything else. As in, the way his soft voice and the amber flecks in his eyes that seem to be able to turn on and off with his emotions just about plow me over. "I think the only thing more adorable than a pet rat is an opossum, and they're pretty much just large, hissing rats with pouches."

"Opossums are awesome."

"That's the rhyme, and it's there for a reason. They're awesome indeed." I fumble awkwardly for something else to say. I'm me, and awkwardness doesn't last for long before I just go with raw honesty. "Are you going to be okay?"

"You mean, am I going to pick myself up from this and get on with it? Sure. I hope so. My mom won't be annoyed with me forever, and I don't think she'll go back to planning dates for me, at least not at the rate she was before. Maybe one or two here or there, and I might have to give her those, but I'll figure the rest out."

"Do you have time to figure it out if you're always working?"

He sighs and rubs a hand on the back of his neck. I wonder if he's been bent over his work at this desk for hours, and it hurts, or if it's just a stress mechanism. Either way, I'd like his hand to be my hand right now. Both my hands would be better. I could give him one hell of a massage. My va-jay lets out a two-fisted cheer. She'd like to give one hell of a massage.

So inappropriate. Holy fuckles.

"I've been thinking more about that. I don't know what I want to do because my life has been all about work. It's been about trying to fill the huge shoes that came before me and being worthy of my family name and legacy. Yes, that dreaded word. Legacy. Maybe the right thing to do is work smarter, as you said, and not so hard that I don't have time for anything else. I can put other people in place to oversee the running of the companies I have, and for the large part, that's what I've done. I wouldn't be able to function on any level otherwise, but I could do more. I could keep doing it. I could do it until I literally have nothing to do except check in every now and then."

Leave here? Is that what he's going to do?

My heart races, and it feels like it's just been thrown into a thorny patch.

I don't know why I expected him to stay. When someone buys a company on a whim as part of a sort of revenge scheme, it doesn't mean they're going to remain.

Also, if he sort of did this in an indirect way for me, I don't have a great track record with holding onto men.

Now it's my whole body being thrown into that thorny patch and shoved around in them like the sausage in a sausage roll, for good measure.

It's not like Mont is even on my level. We are totally different people with different lives. Mont is so freaking minted, and I'm just a rusty old coin. God, even Gen and her family lead different lives than I do. But not in a bad way. Just vastly not the same.

Genevieve . We've hung out a few times, but after the fake date disaster, I haven't been the bestie I've always been. And she's given me space too. I've been so worried about my job, the charade I had to participate in, and this whole company that I briefed her over calls and texts about what was going on, but I've been pretty AWOL. We need to hang out. I need to be a better friend. I need to also pick up the pieces and get my shit together.

I do know what I want out of life. I've always known. Good friends, my family, a career I'm passionate about, and love…when the time is right.

"Never mind. I shouldn't have asked. I can see you clearly don't want to."

I draw a blank as I come crashing back into the moment. "What?" Shaking myself like I've just been a thousand miles away is rude, so I just stand still and snap all my attention back to Mont. "I'm sorry. I got caught up thinking about what you were saying and about my own stuff. I wasn't trying to ignore you, and I wasn't trying to space out."

"It's okay. We all do that sometimes." Does he look relieved? What the heck did he just ask me, and how could I not have heard a word? "I said maybe I'll travel or find something else in life to be passionate about other than business, but it doesn't mean we can't go for crab legs every now and then. As friends. If you'd like."

"Heck no." His face closes off fast. I've never seen anything so swift. He's shutting down the hurt and the potential rejection, which we all tend to do. Believe me, I understand what it's like to be the one who's not wanted. "Not just for crab legs, I mean. If we go back there, we have to try the crabanana split. It's one of those once-in-a-lifetime challenges. We can cross it off our bucket lists. It's probably the only item we'll ever have in common anyway."

His face softens, the stress lines vanish, and my legs soften to jelly as a response. "I don't know about that," he mumbles warily.

I should get out of here before my face starts doing something I can't control. My chest is already getting there, and the rest of my body is getting out of line just as quickly. Leaving. He's going to leave. He's going to leave to learn what he wants. To make himself happy and to discover life and stuff. That's good. That's self-realization. That's a journey we should all be on. There are no more fake girlfriend or fake fiancée expectations. The pressure is off, and my job is safe. He's going to leave, and everything will be like it was before, but way better. He dealt with his family stuff, and we ate good crab. It's a win for both of us.

So why do I feel so bereft right now?

"If you're leaving," I blurt, unable to stop myself, and oooh boy is my smile big and fake and hiding all the nonsense I can't even understand why I feel right now. "Then we should go for one last crab hurrah. You could meet the real Genevieve. She could come with us too."

He looks doubtful, and for a second, I think how humiliating it will be to hear him say no, but then he pushes back from his desk and gets up like he's shaking off that heavy funk. Like he's getting on with it. I'll be getting on with it too. This is going to be a great thing for both of us. Personal growth. Yup, it for sure is.

"I can bring a good friend too. Maybe they'll unexpectedly hit it off, and they'll have us and all that's happened and crab to thank for it."

Well, if that just doesn't produce the world's largest, irrational stab of jealousy.

"Okay."

Mont is like a bee trapped in my hair, buzzing and annoying, and when I can finally set that bee free and be done with it, then I won't have to worry about fake dates, mothers to please, lying to my family about it, risking my job, or getting stung in other ways. The end is looming, and everything will go back to the way it was before Gen begged me to go on that fateful fake date.

I should be happy and relieved that this has all turned out for the best.

"Friday night?"

"I can't wait to lose my crab and ice cream virginity." I don't know why I just said that. That is not work-appropriate talk, and since we're no longer fake dating and we're not friends, that makes us just co-workers. It makes him my boss. "I…uh…I'll just go now. And do work."

"Savory pudding is a good idea. Maybe not crab, but let's pursue that path."

Agreeing to that is easy. I could talk about this job for hours. Just not alone. In this man's office. With him.

He's okay. We're both okay. We're just going in different directions, and that's all good.

He might be leaving, but at least he told me to my face that he would be doing that. He gave good, legitimate reasons. He doesn't owe me anything. We were never attached in any form, barely even in fake form.

Down the hallway, while walking back to my desk, I feel like we've changed places, and I'm the one who feels like the tired old mop. The bane of my existence won't be doing any more bane-ing, and I'll be free. Mont the bane will be gone, gone, gone. My vagina is the one who's not happy, but she doesn't get a say.

I'm just getting my hormones confused.

They'll straighten out in no time, though.

We'll all bounce back.

I have experience with this. I've come back from far worse. Everything will be A-freaking-OK. If it takes time, then it takes time. I have neverending amounts of time and neverending ideas about pudding. I have a job, and this company, thanks to the fake date fiasco that kicked it all off, is even better now. I'm on a great path. Mont's leaving isn't going to change that. It's only going to put him on a better path, too, and seeing as we never meant anything to each other at all other than vaguely as sort of friends, I'm happy for him.