Page 25 of Silver Linings
“She’s not doing anything wrong! She’s five years old, she’s in bed by eight p.m., and you’re delusional and bitter.”
Mrs. Evans squares up to Simon with all the fury of an agitated badger. “I know what I hear.”
I see sweet Isla over in the corner by the mailroom on the verge of tears, and I make my way over to her to comfort or distract until this argument blows over.
But I don’t make it even halfway across the room before Mrs. Evans gets me in her sights and decides I’m the new target of her ire.
“And you.” Her lip pulls away from her lined mouth in a snarl.
“Here we go.” Out of the corner of my eye, I see Hendrix standing in the doorway that leads to the hallway his office is down. I steel my spine for whatever vitriol she’s about to spew my way.
“I am so sick and tired of the revolving door of men you have coming in and out of this building.”
My face flames, and I have to work to not glance over at Hendrix. “Slut shaming is very two thousand and two of you, Joyce.”
“Mrs. Evans,” Tony tries to interject and diffuse the tension in the room, but nothing is going to work. She is primed and ready to explode like Mount Vesuvius, and I am Pompeii in the way on her path of destruction.
“Constant strange men–”
“It’s notconstant,” I grumble.
“–in and out of here like I’m living in a brothel! It’s indecent and immoral. They’re probably all criminals, and you’re letting them into this building and endangering us all!”
My eyes finally connect with Hendrix’s, and a muscle ticks in his jaw as he leans against the door frame, taking in the scene and watching me be scolded. I need to end this quickly. I look over at Simon and motion to Isla in the corner.
“Get her out of here.” I turn to Mrs. Evans as Simon gathers up his distraught daughter and leaves. “I don’t think this is the best time to—” She cuts me off before I can get another word out.
“I. Don’t. Care. You parade around here in yourskankyclothing?—”
“That’s enough.” Lethal calm is the only way to describe Hendrix’s tone. I look over at him in surprise, and he looks exactly as he did a few minutes ago: arms crossed over his broad chest and seemingly unaffected, minus the muscle feathering inhis jaw. But there’s a fire in his eyes now as he looks over at Mrs. Evans, and you could hear a pin drop as they face off against each other from opposite sides of the room.
She glances at me and rolls her eyes. “You sleeping with him too?” She glances back to Hendrix. “Word to the wise: don’t get involved with this one.” She hooks her thumb and indicates to me.
“I didn’t ask for your opinion, and I think we’re all done hearing it tonight.” Damnit, he’s so sexy when he’s defending my honor. Is it anti-feminist to be so turned on by this?
“How dare you! I’ll have you fired for speaking to me like that,” she huffs in outrage.
“Joyce,” Tony interjects, voice like syrup. “Do you remember that time you came home from that gala trashed off pinot and you broke into Mr. Fairbanks’ office and opened that four hundred dollar bottle of bourbon?”
Mrs. Evans face goes pale. “How did you know about that?”
He spreads his arms wide. “I’m Tony. I know everything that happens here at The Langham.” He looks distinctly smug. “Keep your opinions to yourself, and I won’t have to show George any footage I discreetly disposed of.”
She stomps off toward the elevator, and I step out of her way and hold my hands up in supplication. As she steps onto the elevator, she turns around and levels us all with a withering stare. “You’ll regret crossing me.”
I turn to thank Hendrix for stepping in, for coming to my rescue and shutting down the vicious attack on my character. But as I look over, I see he’s walking out the door without a word of goodbye.
It’s been a few days since the incident in the lobby, and I’ve not seen Hendrix since. I’ve assured Tony nothing was going on between me and the new maintenance man so he could start reiterating that to anyone in the building who thinks otherwise. I’m fairly certain he’s avoiding me, though he can’t avoid me much longer. He’s coming by today to check on my ceiling and hopefully patch it up. Just as I’ve had the thought, there’s a knock at my door, and I race over to answer it.
Hendrix is standing there in a pair of worn-in jeans that hug his thighs beautifully and a sage t-shirt, long sleeves pushed up his arms, showing off the tattooed vines that wrap around his forearms. There’s scruff dusting his cut jaw, and his hair looks slightly mussed, like he just ran his hands through it.
“Morning.”
That’s all I get?
“Let me grab a jacket, because with that frigid attitude, it’s a little Baltic in here,” I retort sarcastically.
He doesn’t say anything, and I’m getting more frustrated by the second. Kena told me to try and be friends with him, but that’s a little impossible when the guy won’t even talk to me. I don’t know what I did to warrant this reaction. Did I pry too much the last time he was here? Was it what Mrs. Evans said? My fingers are starting to go numb from the anxiety of somehow unknowingly upsetting him. I can fix this. I’ll give him some space for now and then broach the conversation later after he’s warmed up.
