Not that it could get much worse. She was acting...well, like herself. Classic Olivia. From the grin to the greeting to swinging over the desk, perching on the edge, joking about how many cookies she'd eaten. This was good-mood Olivia. Bouncy and playful. The side of her that he'd never quite learned how to coax out, like a shaman trying to make the sun shine, realizing he could only wait, and it would come on its own.
This was one of his favorite sides of her, and so he should be happy. Olivia was back and acting like herself, and everything was fine. The sun shone again. Except it didn't. This was Olivia lighting a fire on the mountaintop and saying, "Look, sunshine!"
This was Olivia in fear for her job. Second-guessing herself, uncertain, uneasy. Very un-Olivia. And it was his fault.
When he'd offered her a position, he'd never stopped to consider the power dynamic it introduced into their relationship. His business had grown to the point where an investigator made good economic sense, and Olivia had the brains and the aptitude to learn the job. He also enjoyed working with her, which he'd always thought too much to expect of any employee.
Yet he was the one in charge. Assigning her tasks. Signing her paycheck. That still hadn't seemed a problem--it was a business arrangement that had no bearing on their personal equality. Or so it seemed until he'd gotten "pissy," as Ricky put it, over the Gwynn reveal. Gotten pissy and forgotten the imbalance of their work relationship.
Forgotten? No. A little honesty. Gabriel had known full well what he was doing when he told her not to come into work. Like a child who gets in a fight with a playmate and rescinds a sleepover invitation. I don't want to see you. So there.
Ricky had called him on it. He'd come to the office and spelled out exactly what Gabriel was doing. And Gabriel had ignored him.
I don't know what you're talking about.
You're misunderstanding the situation.
I'm very busy, and I have to leave now. Please let yourself out.
"Gabriel?" Olivia was still sitting on Lydia's desk. Still holding the box of cookies.
Your job is safe.
I'm sorry if I made you worry.
I would never terminate your employment.
She pulled the lid off the box and held them out. "Take one."
He did.
"I'll start coffee," she said as she swung off the desk.
Coffee.
Yes. He should ask her to join him for coffee. They'd walk to the shop down the road, and he'd buy her a mocha, and they'd talk about ghosts. He would tell her what Rose had said, and he would make it interesting.
He stood there, watching her brew coffee.
Too late now.
Really? It's coffee, not a four-course dinner. Just suggest getting her a mocha at the shop, and she'll gladly dump that.
"So what'll it be today?" she asked. "Black? Cream? Milk?"
"Black, please."
All right. Forget the coffee shop. Get her a mocha later. Just tell her about the ghosts. Sit down with your coffees and your cookies and talk.
He reached into his pocket and took out his notebook.
"I spoke to Rose about ghosts," he said.
"Oh?"
He thrust out the book. "It's in here. Read it, and then we can discuss. I have an appointment at eight-thirty, but I will be free after that."
He accepted his coffee with a murmured thank you and retreated to his office.