“Both of them. I’m done with having a boss.”
“So what’s the plan if you run out of money?”
“I’ll figure it out.”
“You could reel in a rich husband.”
I snort and gesture to myself. “Do I look like trophy wife material?”
He says nothing, just looks at me in his intense way. Like he’s seeing me, the real me, and he likes what he sees.
Sweet Santa, I wish that were true, but it’s not. He just wants to make me squirm.
Why am I even trying to have a conversation with him? I’m day-drinking for the first time. Enjoying my new freedom, that’s the task at hand.
“Give me my drink back.”
“No.”
I try to grab his arm and end up wrestling with him. He spins me around, clamping me against his body. He’s so much bigger than me, it’s not a fair fight. I wish I were wearing my red boots so I could stab his foot with my heel.
My body, already flooded with feelings, gets confused and thinks it’s the start of sexy time. My breasts swell, and my pulse picks up, pounding between my legs. I’m weak with desire, which sucks because I’m supposed to be pummelling Piers, not swooning in his arms.
While I’m struggling to get free, he raises my glass to his lips.
“No!” I shout.
But it’s too late. He chugs the creamy, light brown liquid, the muscles of his throat working in a smooth movement.
Baileys. He hates Baileys. And he’s lactose intolerant.
“Ah, disgusting.” He grabs the highball of whiskey and uses it to wash out his mouth.
“Why?” I cry. “Why would you do this?” First, he took away Christmas, so I turned to whiskey, and then he took that, too!
“You’re acting ridiculous.” His color is high, but his voice is sharp as ever. He can hold his liquor. I’ve never seen him affected by it.
Except that one night. But I vowed to myself to forget that night.
“Let me go.” I kick at his shin until he does. I put a few feet between us and gesture to the liquor cabinet. “One thing. You couldn’t let me have this one thing?”
“You’re not thinking clearly.”
“Oh, I’m thinking clearly.” My voice is a little slurred, but I soldier on. “I’m thinking more clearly than I ever have.”
Piers swallows. He half turns away and rests a hand over his stomach. The lactose must be hitting him.
“You need to take your pill,” I mutter. “It’s upstairs in my bag.” I’m mad at him, but I don’t want him in needless discomfort. Unless I decide to punch him in the stomach.
“I’m all right,” he murmurs. “Thank you.”
When he turns to me again, he hits me with the full blast of his charm. “You can’t quit Wellesley.” His tone is soft. Persuading. “Who will take care of me?”
My heart soars. He noticed! He noticed I take care of him.
“Who will entertain me during long meetings? Keep me company in my cavernous office? Comfort me when the Fed raises rates?”
The picture he’s painting of me is almost sweet. Almost.
