My voice practically shaking, I say, “Mr. Wolfe, you’re so hateable.” That makes me sound like I’m the meanie, but I have to push back against the way he’s making me feel.
“Hateable?” He steps closer, towering over me.
I eke out a nod. “Yes, hateable.”
“Am not.”
I tilt my head up. “Are so.”
“Am not,” he repeats, brushing the thumb of his massive hand across his lower lip, revealing a sneaky little smirk that I want to wipe right off that handsome face with my...with my mouth.
My face grows hotter. No, no, I do not. I did not think that.
Instead of continuing this juvenile game of back and forth, he says, “Ninety-nine percent of women in the world would disagree, if that’s what you really think.”
“That you’re difficult, disagreeable, and hateable?”
Wearing an infuriating smile, Connor says, “I’m enjoyable.”
“Going to an amusement park is enjoyable. Watching the sunset is enjoyable. Eating chocolate cake is enjoyable.”
“What about looking at selfies of me online?”
I open and close my mouth, unable to lie but not willing to tell him I saw the last few, including the one with themeowcaption and my sticky note handiwork. And fine, I also looked at photos dating back a few years in his feed when I couldn’t sleep.
“As I said, I’m enjoyable,” he gloats like he snared my bunny-slippered feet.
“Enjoyable is not the opposite of hateable.”
“No? What is then?” he asks slowly, enunciating each word because we both know the answer.
I struggle to inhale and my heart does some ziggy, zaggy thing, probably because it doesn’t like being cornered.
Holding the door open for Connor to exit, I lock my office and hold my palm open for the key. He sets it against my skin, fingers lingering there like he did earlier over dinner. His copper-eyed look is on me and it’s long, stretching well past the seconds that tick on the grandfather clock.
Like I’m cute.
As if he likes what he sees.
Like I’m as delicious as chocolate cake.
I cannot stand this man. Much. I mean, maybe I can stand him a little. His selfies aren’t bad bedtime stories and he looks good, freshly shaven in the morning with his haircut. And I wasn’t lying about men of his stature when dressed in a tailored suit.
Meowindeed.
But I have a lot on my plate, including the urgent mail from the embassy about my work visa and having to find over thirty thousand dollars, so there remains a job to keep.
Connor’s prankscontinue for the remainder of the week, which really doesn’t help matters.
Though I can’t claim complete innocence. To retaliate for the googly eyes, once again, I sneak into his room. The man is a heavy sleeper because I manage to paint his toenails pink. It’s not a salon-quality job, but there is no mistaking the shout I hear the next morning. The guys tear him apart, which is ratherenjoyableafter having to spend hours getting the googly eye glue off the surfaces in my office.
To get back at me, he planted some dye in the bath faucet that dissolved when I ran the tub water. I’m still mildly green, but thankfully, it didn’t get in my hair.
My next move was to wrap his soap in nail polish so it didn’t lather and I traded out his shampoo for mayonnaise—I got that idea from Declan.
But then Connor changed the clocks in my office, flipping the screen on my computer monitor upside down, and for good measure, he covered the sensor on my computer’s mouse with a photo of himself—the one he took after his makeover. He also attached an air horn to the bottom of my desk chair so that when I sat down, it honked.
That nearly gave Arthur a heart attack.
