Battle of the Sexes

Chapter Nine

Amity

Manhattan looks different at night.

From my desk, I sit and gaze out over the city. It's a blur of colors, of moving parts that you can't quite make out but sort of zip around like an apparition.

My body aches as I stretch, my muscles tight from sitting in this chair for the last ten hours. I've poured over statistics and facts, human resources data and projections, and worked on the presentation to the Board. Glancing down at my computer screen, I feel good about what I have. But I'm not quite ready.

My energy is starting to wane. Between mulling over Carver's half-assed apology and working on this project, I'm wearing out. Things I know aren't true are creeping into my subconscious, messing with me. Things like ... maybe Carver is sorry.

If he was joking or playing up his responsibility, he's a damn good actor. There was no hint of silliness, no sexy smirk or attempt at dazzling me with his charm or sidetracking me with innuendo. It was a straight-forward, cut-and-dry, quasi-serious attempt at an explanation. Maybe it was stupid to hold a grudge all this time, but his actions changed the way I felt about myself for a long time. It gave me a complex and that is very real—right or wrong.

"I'd give anything for a cup of coffee from Hanley's," I groan, wincing as I stand.

The cleaning crew works quietly outside my office; I can see them through the windows. Everyone else left hours ago.

Leaving my heels beside my desk, I head towards the break room. Giving a little wave to an older lady running a vacuum inside Hallie's office, I keep going until I get to the end of the hallway. Flipping on the light, I see a box of donuts still sitting by the coffee maker.

"Score!" I exclaim quietly, my stomach rumbling along with the celebration.

"What are we cheering for?"

I turn around to see Carver. His black and grey striped shirt is untucked, wrinkled at the ends from being shoved in his pants all day. The top few buttons are undone and the sleeves are not only unbuttoned but rolled to his elbows. His silky hair is a mess as if he's been running his hands through it all day.

"I didn't know you were still here," I say, stifling a yawn.

"I'm always here," he shrugs. "What are you doing?"

"Eyeing those donuts."

"Did you have dinner?"

I raise and drop my shoulders. "I don't even know what day it is, much less if I've eaten today."

"Rule number one at Jones + Gallum," he says, giving me a sweet grin, "is you have to take care of yourself."

"You'd think that being I'm the Gallum part of that equation, I'd know that."

"You'd think," he says, his grin growing wider. He cocks his head to the side. "It's getting late. Why don't we go get something to eat?"

Yawning again, I look at him pitifully. "Is it wrong to say I don't have the energy to fight a crowd and wait for a table?"

"We do own a chain of restaurants. Just pointing that out."

"Yeah, but if we go to one of those, then we're going to start dissecting every little nuance and it'll turn into more work."

"True." He wipes a hand down his face. "You know, I really am sorry, Amity. I know I apologized earlier, but your acceptance of that was the most insincere forgiveness I've ever heard."

I watch him shift his weight and struggle to put whatever he's thinking into words. Without the smirk and the tie and the expanse of his office around him, he seems more ... mortal. Maybe more capable of having feelings. Of being honest.