Page 27 of Fighting Gravity

Rosie spent the next evening, Friday, with Elle and the delightful Lorenzo, the eponymous owner of the Italian restaurant they’d fallen in love with on Rosie’s first visit to Victory. Like the first time, he plied them with pasta and tiramisu that rivaled any meals she’d had in San Diego’s Little Italy.

Elle had been giddy when Rosie had told her Tate was coming to get her Saturday morning. She’d actually clapped, and her voice had pitched so high only dogs could hear it. Rosie had tried to play off the weekend as an architectural excursion, but Elle knew her better than that. She also knew Rosie well enough to understand why she couldn’t admit that Tate might be more than someone who’d contracted with her firm. She’d shared just a little of what she was wrestling with.He’s trying so hard to prove he’s worthy, and I can’t ignore it. I can’t ignore him.

Now it was Saturday and her hands were shaking as she drove to the hangar. Tate had insisted on picking her up there, so she parked in her normal spot in the lot and waited.

Tate pulled up in a different convertible than the sleek black one he’d driven the night they’d kissed outside The Saloon, the night she’d taken a private plane ride home. This Mustang was old. Classic. Light blue like the sky. The car suited him, billionaire or not.

Her heart tumbled over a cliff as he climbed out to greet her. Joy. Safety. Relief. She itched to be enveloped by his solid body again. Instead, he pried her bag away and opened the passenger door for her. He was in jeans and a T-shirt that looked old and worn but probably wasn’t. While she salivated over his snug suits and penchant for casually buttoned dress shirts, the tan skin and muscles currently on display offered tough competition.

Rosie slid into his car, the smell of Tate and old vinyl assailing her senses. “Thank you for the getaway,” she said.

His clear eyes sent flutters across her skin. “You deserve a getaway. Thank you for agreeing to let me spoil you.”

“I don’t think I agreed tothat.”

He shrugged, an amused smile pulling at his lips. “You relinquished your rights as soon as you got in my car.” He cringed. “That statement sounded more menacing than I meant it to.”

“I’m not afraid of you, Tate.”

“Good. I was worried all week that you regretted what we’d done. That I scared you.”

She shook her head. “Not in the way you’re thinking.”

“God, Rosie.” Her name came out as a moan.

She dropped her gaze to her lap. She shouldn’t have admitted that she was only afraid of her feelings for him. But they’d started with an honest foundation. Mostly. Tate still didn’t know her story. He didn’t know why she couldn’t bring herself to sink into his eyes and drown. She needed him to understand why she kept vacillating. Sharing was only fair.

Rosie started at the beginning. “Chad and I were in architecture school at the same time. We had a few classes together. We got hired at the same firm right out of college. We had similar goals. We both wanted to become licensed architects right away. Licensure takes years typically, so we teamed up to help each other out.”

They’d been a good team. Chad had helped her study. Rosie bought them takeout during their late nights. He gave her shoulder rubs. She made sure he was included on project teams at the firm and sang his praises as a designer. The licensure exams were the most stressed she’d ever been. Him, too. She saw hints in those times of simmering anger, especially as she passed every exam the first time and he had to do a few retakes. Still, at work they were a good team. Outside of work, too, with study sessions that sometimes ended in sex.

“Our trajectory was similar. Over three years, we passed all the exams, started stamping drawings and leading teams. The leadership at the firm encouraged our initiative.”

She felt rather than saw Tate kill the engine and turn his toned body toward her.

“Leadership told a handful of us that they’d be promoting one of us to principal. At our age, that’s huge. Chad and I both wanted that promotion.”

Frost filled her stomach. Hers wasn’t trauma like other people experienced. Some days she was angry at herself for feeling like a victim when no one had physically harmed her. There was no violence, no abuse. But her entire world had changed in a blink from the deliberate actions of another.

Tate must have read her face. He picked up her fisted hand from the car’s bench seat and wove his fingers in hers. A signal that she was not alone.

“One day, I walked out of a meeting and everyone was staring at me. Like, in shock. Or disgust. The looks…” Rosie shook her head. Her cheeks heated with shame. Still. “I’ve always faded into the background. That afternoon, I was the center of attention. Two executives and the HR lady came up to me and asked me to follow them to a conference room.” Her voice sounded small, even to her. “They kept talking about an email. Mentioned the possibility of pressing charges. I had no idea what was going on. They told me to pack my personal items and turn in my key card.”

She had, in complete mortification. She’d felt eyes on her back. Frank, her boss, and Linda, the HR woman, wouldn’t answer her questions. Frank had looked at her that day like he’d never seen her before. Linda had watched her the whole time she’d packed her desk, like she might steal Post-Its or paperclips. At one point, Rosie surreptitiously checked her email on her phone. There were no new emails in her inbox. What the hell were they talking about with an email? But then she checked her outbox and her world crashed all over again.

There was an email from her that she hadn’t sent. A reply-all to a large, diverse design team. An email filled with hate. With bigotry. With ugly statements about a black coworker, the contents of which utterly shocked and disgusted Rosie.

The woman at the desk next to hers, Lizzie, had stared at her with round eyes as Rosie had looked up from her phone. Surely, Lizzie couldn’t believe Rosie capable of such words. Such thoughts. They’d worked side by side for two years. Tears had tracked down Rosie’s cheeks. Someone had racially attacked their teammates using Rosie as their voice. Why? Who? She’d started to hyperventilate.

“Chad was at your desk a while ago,” Lizzie had said then.

“What?”

“What?” Linda had repeated. A quick glance showed that her eyes had narrowed.

“Chad,” Rosie had breathed. Her mind had tried to make sense of that twist. “The principal position? He wouldn’t.”

“Time to go, Miss Flynn,” Linda had said, voice clipped.

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