when he marches over to me and grabs the file and his phone before marching right on out. ‘In my office, princess.’ The door slams, making me jump, and Mr H’s wrinkled forehead wrinkles further.
‘Princess?’ he asks in question.
My cheeks heat. ‘I hate him calling me that.’
Mr H looks serious. And very unhappy. ‘You’ve been summoned, princess.’
‘So, lunch?’ I ask, ignoring his obvious scorn and moving things along.
The suspicious eyes are fixed. It bothers me, but I brave their scrutiny in the hope of his acceptance. I want to talk Mr H around, to encourage him to make peace with his grandson, since Becker is a stubborn twat. Problem is, Becker gets that stubbornness from someone, and I’m quite sure I’m looking at him.
‘Go on, Mr H. Let me take you out.’
‘I don’t think so, Eleanor, but thank you for offering.’
I suspect he’s not only avoiding it because he thinks I’ll pick his brain on Becker, but because he feels like I’m offering out of sympathy. He feels like a burden. The fact that I would love to hear his tales of times gone by when he trekked the world won’t appeal to Mr H. I suspect reminiscing brings back regret and heartache.
The door swings open again, and Becker appears, impatience bubbling from every pore of his face, making his young, boyish handsomeness appear rugged and worn in. He gives me an expectant look and points down the corridor. ‘Work.’
‘I’m coming,’ I say. ‘See you later, Mr H.’ I hope he doesn’t think this is the end of it. I’ll get him out for lunch if it kills me. I would love to pick his brain, but not about his grandson. I didn’t finish my university degree, but history is still my passion, and I’m sure Mr H would be an excellent teacher.
Becker glowers at me, unhappy, as I rise from my chair. ‘This isn’t a social club,’ he mutters.
I ignore him, because I’m at work and I need to get that even balance, which means occasionally letting his arsehole attitude slide off my back like oil. Right now, I’m giving him the benefit of the doubt, due to the family feud.
Mr H, however, bites. ‘It’s also not a knocking shop,’ he mumbles under his breath, but loud enough for his grandson to hear.
I wince, but not because his grandad insulted me. He’s just reminded me of the numerous women who might have come before me. Might? I don’t know who on earth I’m trying to kid. Definitely is definitely the right word.
How do I look past this? How do I look past the lack of respect from Mrs Potts and Mr H? I thought you were smarter than that, Eleanor. Not like the rest of the brainless tarts. Yeah, I thought so too, Mr H. But I can hope. It’s all I have, but at what point do I admit defeat? Will I need to admit defeat? Can I change him, prove them all wrong? Hope. I know I’m grappling here, but surely I can cling to his words last night, when he pleaded with me to believe in him.
I want to talk to you, watch you, share my love for my treasure with you. I hope you see my determination to prove to you that I’m a better man than you think.
I have to try. He begged me to try.
I sense the bad vibes bouncing between grandfather and grandson, not daring to squeak a word for fear of tipping either one over the edge. Becker looks a little lost, his mouth flapping open repeatedly like a goldfish, clearly stumped for what to say. I can’t help feeling sorry for him. ‘Work,’ he barks finally, focusing his grievances on me. I’ll let him off, just this once. I didn’t sign anything that gave him the okay to use me as his verbal punching bag.
I pass him, trying to get a sense of how pissed off he really is. It takes a nanosecond. He’s livid. I wander down the corridor, feeling vulnerable with him stalking behind me. I’m torn. I know it’s not my place to say, but what I really want to do is tell him to snap out of it and make peace with his gramps, but just when I think I might brave broaching the subject, Becker slides his hand on to my nape and fists my hair. It’s the sexiest threat ever. ‘I think we need a repeat of last night very soon,’ he whispers in