Elizabeth Finn - Restoring Jordan

He’s an asshole—a very nice-looking asshole, and this conversation has just taken a nosedive. “I’m top of my class, and I’m smart. I don’t need to be babysat by arrogant architects and bitchy designers!” What was supposed to belie confidence ends up showing my resentment instead, but my blood is boiling at his words, and I’m failing to restrain my feelings in any way. He’s a jerk, and he doesn’t know me at all, but my pathetic, juvenile words have failed to sink in as he continues, his irritation starting to show.

“Your intelligence remains to be seen, and you may someday be a great designer, but right now, you’re green, darlin’—supergreen. Don’t let your arrogance trip you up. If you want to learn, I suggest you pay attention and grow a thicker skin than you obviously have at the moment. Grow up and stop acting like a wounded puppy.”

At that, he waives the waiter to our table and drops a credit card on the check. He’s pissed, but frankly, so am I. Not for the first time today, I wonder why I should care what he thinks. He’s no one to me. We had sex, and it was quite clear his interest was in nothing more than my body for one night. This is not a man who deserves my concern or care. Who the hell am I kidding? I’m no victim of his whoring. I asked for it, and I got it. But I feel victimized; I’m hurt. There’s no sense to it, and yet the pain is rejection. This realization is unwelcome; it means I’m exactly the same as every other pathetic woman so intent in believing my life is somehow attached to a man—as though his approval should mean anything to me. But it does, and with a swift and overpowering surge of emotion, I decide I’m going to prove him wrong, and I’m going to make him eat his bullshit words.

He stands swiftly to leave, and I fall behind his steps. He’s walking with a brisk pace, his irritation showing in his every swift footfall, and as we near his car he approaches my door. Rather than opening it for me, he pushes me gently but firmly against the door with a strong hand to my hip. His touch is possessive, his eyes are on fire, and I’m certain his harsh irritation has finally cracked. He’s going to touch me, and in all of my irritation and hurt, I want him to. I want him to soothe the pain he’s caused me. I want his hands on my skin and to push away his painful words with them. And as he slips his hand past the lapel of my jacket to my breast, my breath catches audibly, and I stop breathing. And with one final look to my eyes, he destroys me.

There’s a ripping sound, but it’s many long, confusing moments before I can figure out why his intimate touch my body is so craving sounds more like ripping fabric than the gentle kneading of my breast through my shirt, but as he dangles the long, clear, sticky clothing label, announcing I’m a size S in front of my face, I die. He continues to appraise my eyes as I stare at the sticker he now holds in front of me, and with one swift move, he pulls my hand to his, places the sticker in my palm and moves to the driver’s door without a second glance to me. I quickly wad the sticker in my hand and fumble for the door latch. Humiliation is washing over me in tsunami-size waves. I don’t want to be in the car with him, and the irrational childish part of my brain pleads with me to run, but it’s not an option. And sinking into the seat next to him, I look out the window, praying I can restrain the embarrassment and the tears pricking at my eyes in humiliation.

***

I’m not prone to getting pissed off easily, but she managed it in less than thirty seconds. Quite frankly, most people don’t challenge me so openly as she did, but she had no problem firing back at me. What happened to the innocent, sweet fuck from Friday night? Hard to believe this resentful bitch is that same girl. I told her what she needed to know. I don’t sugarcoat anything outside of my bedroom, and she might as well get used to that fact. What does she expect? I’m not here to hold her hand … but God, I wouldn’t mind touching her leg.

She’s sulking beside me in the passenger seat as I return us to the office. I had thought the ride back would be awkward, but my mind has been racing in irritation, and I’ve paid little attention to her whatsoever. But as she crosses her leg away from me, her black skirt riding up a few inches on her thighs, I stop hating her for long enough to fantasize about her. She had no business withholding the fact she was a virgin from me, but at the same time I can understand why she did. Would it have made a difference? I’d like to say the answer to that question is yes, but my cock begs to differ, and as I steal glances at the perfect, smooth, pale skin that peeks out between her knee-high boots and the hem of her skirt, my groin aches in want. I’m hard just sitting next to her in the car as she stares out the window in anger, and I have to concede I want to fuck her. I want to pull over and push that skirt to her tight, little waist and take her body. I want her to submit to my demands and fuck every last ounce of her obstinacy from her mind, but I don’t make a move. I keep my hand on the wheel, guiding the car through the traffic, and once we’re back at Foster’s I park quickly, desperate to get away from her but not wanting to.

I round the car to her door, and as I help her from the car I freeze. She’s been crying, and while she won’t look at me, her eyes are still damp with her tears, and her cheeks are splotchy and red. I humiliated her. I was angry, and rather than sparing her feelings, I let my anger get the better of me, and now seeing her in this state I hate myself.

Her pain is a punch to the gut. I want to touch her. I want to apologize. I want to take the hurt and embarrassment I caused her away, but as I open my mouth to speak she beats me to the punch. “Please stay away from me.”

Her eyes meet mine for the first time since stepping from the car. They are bright with her tears and twinkling from the glossiness. The blue is stunningly clear, and she looks beautiful—hurt but beautiful. And as she turns to leave, she stops and looks back with one final comment. “I’m sorry I lied to you.” And then she’s gone, and I feel like an asshole. More than that, I feel rejected. How the hell did this happen?

Vera has fast become a pain in my ass, and when she approaches me the week following my lunch with Jordan, every muscle in my body tenses. She’s as much a bitch today as she was on my first day here, and when I see her coming I become nervous and jittery in an instant.

“We have a briefings and assignment meeting in the executive boardroom in ten minutes. Stay out of the way and try not to say anything stupid.” In Vera form she turns on her heel and leaves my gaze trailing after her in confusion. I’m guessing the executive boardroom is where I first met the executives, but it surely doesn’t mean I can find my way back there. In a fortunate coincidence, Bridget stops by my cube a few minutes later to see if I’d like to walk with her. Thank God for sweet Bridget, who doesn’t hate me for being supergreen .

I haven’t seen, spoken to, or instant messaged Jordan since our lunch, and I’m guessing I’m about to be face to face with the handsome asshole any minute. The butterflies in my stomach are an unwelcome reminder this man still has the ability to stop me in my tracks, get under my skin, and intimidate the hell out of me.

As we enter the room, I hold my breath. Standing quietly against the wall as Vera instructed will be no problem. The expansive table is taken by Foster, the principals, and all the senior-level managers, including the toxic Vera. As she sees us enter, she glares at me but waves me to her side. I have no choice but to pass right by Jordan on my way to Vera, less I circumvent the table in a most out-of-the-way manner, and as I approach the table, rounding the end toward him, his gaze follows me. Vera is sitting two seats down from Jordan on the same side of the table, and when I approach, she speaks.