Stiletto Sisterhood

Original Edition: Isobel | The sweet sting of nostalgia

Isobel fought the urge to uncross and re-cross her legs.

For the last five minutes they'd been scissoring madly beneath the meeting room table as they watched the carefully compiled presentation regarding the footage from her time in New York. But now that the presentation was concluded and the lights clicked back on, she wasn't about to move a single, solitary inch that would make her appear as anything other than poised and centered.

Especially since the man spear-heading the meeting was bronze, dark, gorgeous and completely off limits. He'd strolled into CP24 little over a week ago and within that time span not a single—single—woman under forty hadn't experienced a serious case of whiplash whenever he walked by.

A former production manager from CBC and CP24's newest acquisition.

As he'd woven through the presentation, citing numbers, viewership response all carefully splayed out in eye-popping charts and graphs, Isobel had struggled to recall his name without much success when all that popped to the forefront was the nickname courtesy of Priya after Isobel's gushed over their last Skype session three days ago:

Mr. Whoremones.

But above the hum of attraction, was another more insistent feeling. Guilt.

Kyle had been her world once. He future. She'd been foolish to think eight years of feeling would evaporate in the span of a blink. As much as she hated to admit it, thoughts of him had crept back in since New York as the rage, hurt and frustration ebbed, a tarnished shield crumbling around her, and the torrid flood of what once was returned. Bringing with it the sweet sting of nostalgia that shook her straight through, had her fingers itching to reach for the familiar.

The comfortable and easy. Everything she was so entwined with him, how could she ever hope to successfully separate the two without shutting it all away and losing herself in the process?

Her fingers fluttered to her neck, to the delicate rose gold chain and the simple little pendant that dangled there. Old and cherished.

Memories. So many memories.

Call him, her heart wheezed with the desperation of the dying. No, her head replied—though the tone had lost its warrior edge over the subsequent week and had gone almost mewling. Even her night with Hideo had become tainted in the wake of her clashing feelings.

Checking out the hot bossman was like picking at a healing scab, all it did was pluck up painful feels and led to a bit of bleeding, but she couldn't stop herself.

Under the table her legs started bouncing...

"All in all, I think you can agree that Passivist Activist has debuted to a roaring success," he said and swung his gaze around to the other meeting attendees.

"Of course." Nneka set a hand to her thigh, quelling the restless bounce. "Isobel is everything we promised, and more."

"She is," he said with such a degree of sincerity Isobel felt the flash of heat in her cheeks and knew she was about as red as Nneka's cherry tailored slacks. "According to the executive producers, they felt Isobel's capturing of what happened in New York was poignant, beautiful but, more important, thoughtfully rendered. She showed the world and viewers the truth while balancing the fine thread of delivering fact and emotion." As his smile spread, so did that heat. "Now, let's talk about what's next for Passivist Activist."

Mind reeling from the last half hour, Isobel gathered her coat from the back of the chair and folded it over her arm. The day had started brisk and rolled straight into miserable with a steady fall of rain, forcing her to pull out her large umbrella and early fall coat.