Kitabı oku: «"Who Needs Decaf?"», sayfa 2
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NATHAN FELT A LITTLE SILLY standing there in front of so many desks and cubicles where his co-workers could witness this odd exchange. But the cacophony of buzzing phones, chirping computers and occasional cursing of the frustrated reporter assured him that people had better things to do than watch him. Besides, even if they’d all been staring, Nathan found he couldn’t do much more than stand and wait for the brunette with the striking green eyes to say something.
Hoping to prompt a response, he picked up where the conversation had inexplicably derailed. “I’m Nathan Hall,” he reiterated, in case there was any lingering confusion on that point. “And you are?”
“Sheryl.” She addressed the floor more than him. But her seeming shyness was incongruous with the woman who had been joking with him just moments ago.
A smile touched his lips. “Right, Sheryl, the patron saint of elevators.”
She looked up then, and if eyes were the window to the soul, then Sheryl had pulled the drapes tightly down over her exotic, slightly tilted cat’s eyes. He’d had some experience reading people, but he couldn’t get a handle on her current thoughts or mood. Nervous? Maybe even a little guilty about something? But resolved, too, a woman who knew what she had to do even if she didn’t particularly want to do it.
“Sheryl Dayton,” she elaborated. “I, um, Brad Hammond sent me.”
Nathan’s stomach turned over. Good Lord. Twice in his career, when he’d been working on investigative pieces, he’d been offered hush money from different corporations without soul or scruples, and a lower-level Mafia member had once made the much less tempting offer of breaking Nathan’s legs if he pursued a story. Surely Hammond hadn’t sent Nathan a woman?
She squared her shoulders and took a deep breath, her chest rising and falling under her sweater in a way he wished he hadn’t noticed. “I’m in charge of Hammond’s public relations depart—”
“You’re HGS’s PR man?” She couldn’t be further from a man, but for once Nathan didn’t care about semantics.
Well, he’d certainly been a pompous idiot to think even for a second that she might be a…what? Hooker? As though anything about the straight, sophisticated cut of her hair, her china-delicate skin, or the classy clothes that clung just softly enough to her slim curves to be sexy, suggested an illicit lifestyle. Apparently, his years of reporting about the worst in people were taking their toll on his judgment.
The only reason he could possibly have had for instantly linking Sheryl with sex was the attraction he felt to her. His immediate and appreciative masculine response to her physical appearance had only been heightened by their teasing in the elevator, the single potent touch they’d shared, and the way her interested gaze had brushed over his skin. He firmly ignored that attraction now to follow what she was saying.
“…to discuss those columns you’ve been writing.” Her expression, if not actually frosty, was cool, her tone all business.
He matched her demeanor, folding his arms across his chest. “I have no intention of retracting a single word I’ve written so far, and if any new information surfaces, you can be sure there will be more columns. I’m sorry you wasted a trip across town.”
“Maybe if we could just go in your office and talk—”
“If you wanted to talk, you should have made an appointment,” he interrupted, pointing out the polite, professional course of action. “I’m a busy man, and I’m afraid I have a schedule to keep.”
He wasn’t born yesterday, and he had no intentions of letting her ambush him, as so clearly had been her plan. Manipulative. She’d arrived, scheming to surprise him, catching him off guard, but he’d turned the tables on her before she’d even stepped off the elevator. Nice irony, even if it had been unintentional.
Besides, though he did technically have his own office, the tiny room was actually smaller than some cubicles he’d seen. He wasn’t prepared to be alone in that tight space with Sheryl and the light, teasing tang of her perfume.
Determined to sound in control of the situation, he invited casually, “Feel free to call the receptionist, though, and see if there’s a way to squeeze you in next week. Maybe we’ll talk then. Have a nice day, Ms. Dayton.”
Her eyes sparked green flame, but she’d yet to form a reply when he spun on his heel and walked off, cheerfully whistling a Christmas carol.
“SO WE’LL TRY AGAIN,” Brad said from behind the metallic-looking monstrosity that was his desk. Meka had almost had a stroke when he’d insisted on it, and Sheryl personally thought that it looked like a reject from the Star Trek prop room. But Brad seemed to feel the sci-fi aura of the piece was in keeping with running a company known for technological successes in the new millennium.
“Try again?” Sheryl banged a fist on the desk, too angry to care that she’d probably just broken a couple of fingers. “May I remind you, I was against this the first time. The man wouldn’t even let me into his office, and you want me to go back for more abuse?”
Her ego was still smarting from the earlier encounter. All the polished words she’d practiced in the car on her way to the Sojourner building had been reduced to her gaping outside an elevator when she came face-to-face with the man. But, considering the face in question, who could blame her?
Not a fan of conflict, Brad fidgeted, his pale blue eyes nervous. Now that she thought about it, even though his looks were classically handsome, his coloring, from his eyes to his platinum-blond hair, was all pale, not at all warm and vibrant like—
She snapped the thought in half like a dry twig.
“Uh…Sheryl, sweetie, did you just growl?”
She winced, but blasting Brad for the unprofessional endearment probably wasn’t the best way to reassure him she wasn’t rabid. “Course not. Cleared my throat.” She did so now for emphasis. Ahem, ahem, hack, hack, hack. See? Sick, not psychotic. “I may be coming down with a cold or something.”
“I could have Iris order you some chicken soup from the deli for lunch,” he volunteered, concern in his gaze.
With a shake of her head, Sheryl reflected that he really was a nice guy. “That’s all right.” Sensing an opportunity to escape before he ordered her into a second round with Nathan Hall, she stood. “I have some cough drops in my desk and—”
“I’ve got some right here.” He pulled open the slanted top drawer of his hybrid architecture/science-fair project and passed her a handful of honey-eucalyptus drops. “You just help yourself, and we can finish discussing this.”
It had been worth a try.
She sat with a thud. “Brad, you hired me because you said you needed me, needed the advice that I and others have to give you. You’re a brilliant man, but everyone has their strengths and weaknesses, and you pay us to balance yours out. So, please consider my advice when I tell you—”
“I considered your advice yesterday, Sheryl, when we had this same conversation. But we need this man to be our friend.”
“It doesn’t work that way! He doesn’t want to befriend us, and we don’t ‘need’ him, he’s just one guy. Let’s focus on—”
“Just one guy! I can’t believe my public relations person just blew off a journalist with a direct pipeline to the public’s opinion. You’re a helluva lot smarter than that, so why are you being so stubborn about this, Sheryl?”
Because about two minutes before he introduced himself and subsequently kicked me out of the office, I was thinking I wouldn’t kick him out of bed?
Hardly a professional answer, and she had other objections, too, dammit, she just couldn’t remember them all right now. The entire time she and Brad were dating, she’d wished he’d develop a bit more of a backbone. She was proud of him for doing so, but did he have to pick now to do it?
“Well. You are the boss,” she finally conceded.
“I’m so glad somebody remembered,” he said. “I think you all see me as a little boy playing executive, but this is my company, you know?”
“I know.” She glanced down guiltily, remembering the virtual shack in which he’d started his business four years ago and how far he’d already come—how far he’d taken all of them—with his ideas. There had been a time when the tiny company was so informal, it had been more like a club, and while that briefly had been fun, an enjoyable work atmosphere, she was proud of all they’d done to make Hammond Gaming Software the “real” business it was now.
Though she wasn’t yet being paid a third of the salary Brad had said he envisioned for her future, no one else would have hired a woman with her limited experience for a position at this level. With a few notable exceptions, most of Brad’s employees were young, well-trained, eager executives who wouldn’t be able to find their current levels of autonomy elsewhere. The trade-off was that Brad had only recently begun to afford anything close to equitable salaries—luckily, the majority of his young execs didn’t have families to support.
But he’d offered them a piece of his vision, combining their collective business acumen with his software smarts and wide-eyed optimism. He wanted to give them all a shot at the big time, and until a fantasy writer from Colorado with an obscure Web site had filed a lawsuit, Brad’s master plan had seemed to be running smoothly.
She sighed. “What do you want me to do? Just say the word.”
“Make sure Nathan comes to our office Christmas party a week from tomorrow,” he insisted, sitting back in his ergonomic chair. “I want him to get to know us, see we’re good people.”
If only life were that simple. “I can ask him, but I can’t guarantee he’ll attend.”
“Unless he already has plans he can’t or won’t get out of, why wouldn’t he? He writes for a paper, and I’m essentially offering him an opportunity to spend time with HGS personnel and investigate. Why turn that down?”
And if one of their personnel inadvertently said something that got taken out of context on the front page? “Will you at least run the idea by Mark for his legal opinion and…” She trailed off since Brad was already shaking his head.
“I respect your opinion, Sheryl, you know that, and Mark’s, too, but I’ve made up my mind on this.”
“All right.” If she wasn’t going to win this, she might as well lose gracefully. “I’ll go see Nathan again.”
“Make an appointment this time,” Brad advised, blue eyes twinkling. “You’ll probably get further.”
Her cheeks flooded with stinging warmth, and she felt compelled to defend herself. “I had a strategy—”
“We don’t want to look like calculating people with a strategy. We want to look like exactly what we are—open and honest with nothing to hide. Once he realizes that, Nathan Hall is bound to see things from our point of view.”
She recalled Nathan’s vehemence when he’d informed her he wouldn’t retract a word and would continue to write about Hammond for the foreseeable future. See things from their point of view? Well, Christmas was the season of miracles, so she supposed she’d just have to make one.
SHERYL PAUSED in her conversation to Meka just long enough to sip the criminally overpriced movie-concession cola she’d bought. She would’ve ordered popcorn, too, but that would probably require a cosigned loan. Above, the theater lights were still lit, and various pre-movie advertisements flashed across the screen. Tyler was meeting them here, and he still had a few minutes before showtime.
Replacing her cup in its plastic holder, she leaned back in her padded chair, concluding her rundown of today’s meeting with Brad and his newest plan of action for handling Nathan Hall. “I know I’ve said dozens of times that if Brad is going to run his own company, he needs to be more assertive—”
“But you didn’t really mean more assertive with you.” Meka’s smile was knowing.
“Exactly. So am I a big hypocrite?”
“Not so much hypocritical as frustrated by the whole situation,” her friend said, absolving her. “But I have just the thing to take your mind off the so-called Boyfriend of Christmas Past.”
“What’s that?”
“The Boyfriend of Christmas Present.”
“What?” There was no present boyfriend, and Sheryl currently preferred it that way.
“You’ve known me a few years,” Meka said. “Have you ever seen me as happy as I am with Ty?”
“No.” The two lovebirds were cute together, even if their evident love for each other was occasionally nauseating. “But that has nothing to do with me.”
“You’re unhappy. You’ve been so stressed—”
“Brad is paying lawyers money he should be spending on other things.” Darting a quick glance around the theater, she lowered her voice. “Do you realize what could happen to us if, heaven forbid, the case actually goes to court and we lose? Of course I’ve been stressed!”
“But even before that Mathers woman claimed Hammond stole her story, you seemed unhappy. I want to see you happy, Sheryl, and I think the right guy would help with that.”
“Maybe, but the right guy is going to have to wait until a better time.” And Sheryl didn’t just mean the work stuff.
Other people, such as her family, her co-workers and roommates, had often taken center stage in her life. Boyfriends who, though not all as emotionally draining as Brad had been, cut into what little time she might have had for herself.
“I figured you’d say that,” Meka said. “Which is why I’ve decided not to take no for an answer.”
Sheryl laughed. “What, you’ve decided to find me the right guy against my will?” When her roommate bit her lower lip and said nothing, Sheryl scowled. “What aren’t you telling me?”
Not making eye contact, Meka sipped her own five-dollar soda and stalled.
Warning, warning. Red alert. “Tameka!”
“Look, it’s nothing big, just that Ty isn’t coming straight from work, he’s coming from a squash match with a co-worker…. And he’s bringing the co-worker with him.”
“You set me up on a blind date? You set me up on a blind date and didn’t tell me!” Ouch, Sheryl thought, rubbing one hand against her ear. When had she turned into such a shrill soprano?
“Don’t think of it as a date so much as four people who all wanted to see this movie. Coincidentally at the same time and location.”
“I can’t believe this. I should leave right now on sheer principle.”
“With Ty and Jonathan already on their way? Besides, I know how much you like the lead actor. You’re not going anywhere after you’ve already bought your ticket.”
Sheryl drummed her fingers on the purple plastic armrest between her and her supposed best friend. “I suppose you or Tyler told the guy—what’s his name?”
“Jonathan Spencer. He’s an accountant at the firm with Ty.”
“So you guys have briefed Jonathan on me?”
“Absolutely.”
“Yet you didn’t bother to mention any of this to your own roommate,” Sheryl grumbled.
“If it makes you less mad at me, we made you sound terrific. I wanted to date you by the time we finished describing you.”
Sheryl laughed grudgingly. “As long as neither of you described me as having a ‘good personality.”’
“Never!” Meka grinned, obviously knowing she was safely away from the edge of the thin ice. “We told him the truth, that you’re sarcastic and opinionated on a good day, and downright unbearable if you haven’t had enough coffee.”
Grabbing her purse, Sheryl rummaged for something small to throw at her friend. Although bigger would work, too.
“Relax,” Meka said, “we told him you had great legs and an impressive job. Men secretly yearn for powerful women. And we’ve still got time before the guys get here for me to fill you in on Jonathan’s vital statistics.”
“Well, okay then. But you’re never going to blind-side me like this again, right?”
“I won’t need to, now that you know The Plan.”
“The Plan?” Oh, boy. “You don’t just mean Jonathan, do you?”
“Only if Jonathan miraculously turns out to be The One. But it’ll probably take more than one guy—”
“Meka! How many men do you and Tyler have lined up and waiting in the wings? You can’t just trot them all out and ask me to pick one.”
“Clearly you don’t watch reality TV. The networks seem to think that’s exactly how people pair up.” Her friend made a disdainful noise. “Look, I know love happens in its own time, but to fall in love with a guy, you gotta actually spend some time with a few.”
Since Sheryl wasn’t convinced she wanted to fall in love, she said nothing.
Meka wisely switched tactics. “Okay, even if you don’t find your Ty, you’ll have a selection of potential escorts for holiday parties and stuff like that. Besides, wouldn’t it be fun to double date occasionally? Between the time I spend with Ty and your working late, I hardly see you anymore. I know you want your own place, but I don’t want us to completely drift apart!”
Sighing, Sheryl conceded defeat. “Oh, all right, so I’ll agree to a few harmless double dates.” Put like that, it didn’t seem she had anything to get riled up about.
Besides, maybe there’d be some chemistry between her and one of these bachelors, a spark that would prove she could have a powerful reaction to someone besides Nathan Hall.
3
WHY DIDN’T SHE HAVE one of those headsets like the one Denise had, Sheryl wondered on Friday. It had to beat scrunching the phone between your shoulder and ear while you tried to get some work done. By eleven, Sheryl felt as if she’d already talked to a hundred people.
Of course, she’d had three calls in the past hour from Mom alone. First, she wanted to remind Sheryl about the family dinner the weekend before Christmas in addition to the actual gathering on Christmas Day, then she called back to ask if Sheryl had made any headway in her shopping, or if her mother should pick up gifts for the kids in the family and put Sheryl’s name on the tags. Feeling somewhat diminished by the suggestion she couldn’t be trusted to shop for her nieces and nephew, Sheryl had of course lied and said her holiday shopping was well under control.
Then Mom called one final time because she’d forgotten to ask what Sheryl herself wanted for Christmas. So, ha, obviously Sheryl wasn’t the only one not quite finished with shopping. Not quite finished, hadn’t bought so much as the first present or the paper to wrap it in—all depended on how you looked at it.
Too bad Mom knew her direct extension, or Sheryl could instruct Denise to run interference at the main switchboard and claim Sheryl had left for the day.
Luckily, most of the other calls had been pleasant and productive. Two years ago, with Brad’s wholehearted approval and their accountant’s assurance of tax write-offs, Sheryl had organized a community Christmas festival that helped to raise money for area families in need. Other sponsors had joined in with HGS, and the event had become an annual tradition. School counselors had been calling all morning with this year’s updated list of needy families.
So far, it looked as though the turnout for the HGS Holiday Festival on the nineteenth would be even bigger than it had been the past two years, which meant more people would be assisted. It felt great to be Santa Claus, and the festival couldn’t have come at a better time, publicity-wise. Sheryl and her assistant, Grace, had already lined up local performers and food vendors, and a volunteer committee of HGS employees was devising different contests for kids of varying ages. Brad himself would act as the final judge for all the competitions.
Pleased with her accomplishments, Sheryl consulted her to-do list of everything she wanted to achieve before lunch, and her mood took a sharp bah-humbug turn. Call Nathan Hall’s office and arrange appointment. She should do that immediately to give him the most advance notice of the Christmas party and increase his chances of being able to attend. Squirming in her seat, she admitted to herself that she should have called yesterday. But she’d just been so busy…
Her fingers reached for the phone with all the enthusiasm she usually reserved for doctors’ appointments that involved stirrups.
But the receptionist who answered was a cheerful woman who easily accommodated Sheryl with a meeting first thing Tuesday morning, so maybe Nathan’s schedule wasn’t quite as jam-packed as he’d insinuated. Which confirmed her suspicion that his refusal to talk with her had been a power move—very annoying, even if she had shown up unannounced for the same reason.
No sooner had Sheryl disconnected than the persistent red light for line one flashed again, a mere second before the distinct buzz that indicated a call was coming through. If it’s Mom again, I’m asking Brad to authorize a new extension for me. “Sheryl Dayton.”
“Ah, um, Sheryl, I hope you don’t mind, but Tameka gave me your personal ex—oh, this is Jonathan Spencer. We, ah, met last night.”
“I remember,” she assured him.
They’d sat next to each other through the two-hour movie, then joined Tyler and Meka for a late snack at a local diner. Jonathan had seemed nice enough, though to be honest, not particularly memorable, which, judging from his nervous tone, he realized. But she was sure there was more to the man than she’d glimpsed last night. He was probably a wonderful guy just waiting to be found by the right lucky woman.
He cleared his throat. “I don’t usually call women this soon after first meeting them—didn’t want you to think I was desperate or, ah, you know, a stalker—but this morning a client gave me two tickets to The Nutcracker tomorrow night. I thought if you’re not already busy, you might like to go with me?”
Well, since Meka wasn’t available for that girls’ night out this weekend, Sheryl didn’t really have plans. Besides, she needed to work on her holiday spirit this year, and she hadn’t seen the ballet since she was a little girl. Maybe Nutcracker was just what she needed.
“That sounds great Jonathan, thanks for thinking of me. What time’s the show?”
He answered promptly, as though afraid she’d change her mind if he didn’t, and volunteered to pick her up. “Would you like to have dinner beforehand?”
Sheryl did a quick mental analysis. He’d been awfully quiet last night. Maybe just because he was too polite to talk during movies, and Meka and Ty had monopolized conversation afterwards. Still, if Jonathan were as silent Saturday evening, it could make for a long dinner.
“I have a ton of shopping that I’ll be doing tomorrow,” she demurred, “and it may run into the early evening. Why don’t we just go to the show and maybe coffee afterwards?”
A good compromise, she thought. And in case of a true dating emergency, like he belched to the melody of Dance of the Sugar Plum Fairy or excused himself during intermission to call his wife, she’d claim unforeseen exhaustion and ask to go straight home. Of course, she seriously doubted he’d do either of those things, but a smart single gal didn’t overlook a possible escape route on a first date.
THE DOORBELL RANG at seven sharp. Whatever else could be said about Jonathan Spencer, he was punctual. Sheryl opened the door with a welcoming smile.
“You look nice,” Jonathan said immediately, as though he’d rehearsed his greeting.
Almost as an afterthought, he ran a quick glance down the forest-green, ankle-length velvet sheath she wore under a matching mock duster of green-and-black velvet. The long jacket was edged in black satin at the cuffs and lapels. She’d be plenty warm, the outfit just wasn’t very water-resistant. Those weathermen who’d promised a clear, starry night with a record-breaking lack of precipitation had better have known what they were talking about.
“You, too,” she said, taking in his blue suit and pinstripe tie.
Jonathan was good-looking, she realized absently. Average height, he had coloring reminiscent of the beach—thick sandy hair and oceanic aquamarine eyes. So why was she only just now noticing he was attractive and even then in a detached, he’d-make-a-good-date-for-my-sister, kind of way? Here stood a reasonably handsome man with a good job, acceptable table manners and cultured enough not to feel like a sissy attending the ballet. Frankly, after a few of the bad dates she and Meka had discussed in their collective pasts, the table manners alone put him ahead of some of the men out there. But there was no sense of anticipation or attraction, no flutter of first-date nerves.
Nonetheless, she smiled brightly and grabbed her black handbag off of a hook near the front door. “Where’s the performance? I didn’t think to ask when you called yesterday. The Paramount? Mercer Arts Center?”
“Actually, it’s at a place I’m not familiar with, but I got the map off the Web.” He retrieved two tickets from his jacket pocket, studying one quizzically. She just made out the word Nutcracker before he folded the tickets back into his pocket. “The Backstage Pass?”
Sheryl could feel her eyebrows zoom up and disappear beneath her bangs. “The Backstage Pass, really?”
How many theaters in Seattle could there be by that name? She’d been there twice, once as a requirement for a college elective, and once in the pre-Ty days when Meka had been dating a would-be actor. Tameka would roll on the floor laughing when Sheryl told her she’d gone back.
The Backstage Pass specialized in bizarre, experimental performances, and while Sheryl wasn’t a regular theater buff, she also wasn’t a total neophyte to the Seattle arts scene. She’d seen a couple of truly wonderful alternative pieces in this city, but not at the Backstage Pass. The play she’d seen in college—billed as a “romance” —consisted of a man and woman standing on stage for a solid hour quoting verses from obscure poems on love while playing Ping-Pong. In the nude.
The program explained that the nudity represented men’s and women’s desire for true intimacy and no barriers, while the indoor tennis table was a metaphor for the games that people play anyway, preventing that very intimacy. Sheryl got all that, but she figured that if you had to explain the symbolism, it probably wasn’t working very well. Besides, though there was nothing at all vulgar about the tedious, vaguely pretentious one-act, some people just weren’t meant to be naked in front of an audience. Particularly if they were going to dive energetically to the left to volley an opponent’s serve.
The second time she’d gone—to support Tameka and watch the boyfriend who’d generously and inaccurately called himself an actor—the play hadn’t even aspired to something as lofty as symbolism. It had been simple shock theater, designed to offend audiences, and, if failing to raise that level of emotion, then at least gross them out.
What was a place like that doing with a traditional holiday ballet like Nutcracker?
“Anything wrong?” Jonathan asked, snapping her back to the present.
“Um…” He already seemed nervous about tonight; she didn’t want to say anything that might be construed as a complaint this early in the evening.
Maybe it won’t be so bad.
For all she knew, the place was under new management. The show’s title was at least the same, a good sign. If they were doing some sort of revisionist adaptation, didn’t they normally alter the name? The Wiz, for example, had been a jazzed-up version of The Wizard of Oz. If Jonathan had said the show was called Crackin’ The Nut, then she’d have reason to worry.
She kicked her smile up another notch, hoping she didn’t look like some phony, cheerful early-morning news anchor. “Nope, everything is just fine.”
Of course, two hours later, she wished that instead of being polite she’d advised Jonathan that they run, not walk, in the opposite direction of the theater to seek out other entertainment. Because “entertaining” certainly didn’t describe the evening she was being subjected to.
When they’d arrived, Sheryl had noticed that she and Jonathan seemed overdressed compared to most of the other patrons. But it wasn’t until they reached the ushers at the front of the auditorium that she noticed the billboard: Nutcracker! and then in much smaller print underneath, “A dark, urbanized retelling of the original tale.” Oh, good, just what Christmas needed—dark urbanization.
As Jonathan followed her gaze, he began to look nervous—even more so than before—and immediately retrieved the tickets from his pocket, squinting at the small print. “I had no idea,” he stammered. “A client gave…I saw the first word and just assumed…”
“It’s all right,” she told him, feeling guilty now for not having shared her misgivings about the Backstage. “Maybe it’ll be…” She hadn’t been able to think of a word, but it hadn’t mattered because then it was their turn to hand over their tickets and find their seats.
Now, it was intermission, and Sheryl didn’t know how much more she could take. The play had begun with slightly altered characters Claire and Franz giving disturbed soliloquies on their relationships with their parents. Due to a dysfunctional home life, they joined a gang led by an underworld figure known as the Rat King. Then followed several violent, badly choreographed street-fight/dance numbers accompanied by an overpowering electric guitar. The program promised that in the next half of the show, the traditional dance of sweets was being replaced by Claire hallucinating that different narcotics had come to life.
As soon as the lights went up in the auditorium, Sheryl bolted for the main lobby, a dazed Jonathan following behind. Was there a polite way to ask him if they could just cut their losses and leave? He’d been the one to invite her, and if she suggested going now, she might make him feel worse. Please, get us out of here, she willed him, feeling the bright red walls around them closing in on her.
He shoved his hands in his trouser pockets. “Um, Sheryl, I was wondering if—”
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