I drag a hand through my hair, still utterly fucking frustrated with that jackass. But I don’t want to reveal Bellamy’s situation to anyone, so I keep the specifics veiled. “There’s a woman I know, and today I met this guy she works with and got kind of a Harvey Weinstein vibe from him. A worrisome disregard for my friend’s personal bubble,” I say.
Rory gags. “Ugh. Gross.”
“That’s terrible,” Jo says, sympathy in her eyes. “What happened?”
I give them more details, and then, because this is new to me, I just shrug and admit I’m flying blind. “Is it my place to say something?”
“To her?” Rory asks.
“Yes. I truly don’t know.”
Rory and Jo look to each other, question marks in their eyes.
Then Jo answers, “Maybe to let her know you give a shit about her.”
That seems clear enough.
Because . . . I do.
That evening, I pick up the phone and call Bellamy while pacing my apartment.
She answers on the third ring. “Did you forget to tell me how amazing you are?” she asks, sounding just like the woman I know.
But I don’t take the bait. “Nope. Not why I’m calling.”
“Then to what do I owe the honor of this call? Are you going to wax on more about spark? How it’s the only way? Or maybe ask me if I’ve kissed any more frogs?”
I strip all teasing from my tone. “No. I wanted to call about earlier. Are you okay?”
“Of course. Why wouldn’t I be?” And just like that, some of the flirting is stripped from her tone, her words all formal and precise. She’s got her guard up.
“Because of what happened,” I say, unsure how to begin.
“Because you left? Nah. We were all done. And you made your case for Carpe Diem.”
I’ve run up against that wall of hers, but in this situation, I don’t let her keep me out.
“Bellamy,” I begin, walking past the window overlooking the park. “I got the sense that David makes you uncomfortable, and with good reason. His behavior borders on harassment. I didn’t think he’d react well professionally if he caught on to the fact that I’d just been kissing you, and I didn’t want to leave you alone with him if you felt uncomfortable. That’s why I asked if you wanted me to stick around. And I’m sure you can handle yourself—you strike me as more than capable. But I just wanted to know if you’re . . . well, okay?”
“Oh . . .” She’s quiet for a long while. “Thanks for asking. But honestly, it’s fine. Really, it’s fine.”
There’s that tough girl facade.
I arch a brow. “Are you sure?”
She sighs heavily. “Seriously. It’s fine.”
But anyone who says she’s fine three times is anything but. “Does he make you feel uncomfortable?”
“It doesn’t matter. I know women who have it a lot worse. You should hear the stories from some of my friends.”
“But it doesn’t have to be that way,” I point out.
“Not for you. But it’s a fact of life for women in the workplace. I don’t know anyone who hasn’t had to deal with it at some point on some level.”
I hate how resigned she sounds. “But none of you should have to,” I protest.
“My show is about dating and romance,” she says with a fatalistic sigh. “That makes some people think they can say anything they want. Like talk about my clothes. Or stare. But he’s never crossed a line.”
“Doesn’t make it right.”
“Of course not. But that doesn’t mean it’s not an unfortunate reality.”
I drag a hand down my face. This shit is not okay. “If this happened to my sister . . .”
She laughs heartily. “I’m not your sister. And it’s a damn good thing, isn’t it? Given how deep your tongue was down my throat.”
I manage a small laugh. “Yes. Obviously yes.” I can sense she’s done with this conversation, but I can’t let it go. “There are things—”
“Thank you. Easton, truly. I appreciate you saying all this, but I don’t want to talk about him. It’s hard enough that he’s my producer, and I hate that he has any say about the show, but he’s all talk. It sucks to have to listen to him, but that’s life. He doesn’t know where I live, and I made sure he doesn’t have my direct phone number,” she says and there’s a note of utter delight in her voice. Like she’s pleased with that defiance. “The buffer around my home life is my act of resistance. So, I’d just as soon not talk about him while I’m here.”
I stare out the window, casting about for something else, anything else. If she wants me to drop it, I ought to drop it. But I’m coming up empty.
“Let’s talk about the fact that you didn’t research me for your party,” she says, rerouting the conversation.