1
MANDY
“God, I could just kill him!” I gasp in the empty elevator.
Or at least it’s supposed to be empty.
A large hand grabs one of the heavy metal doors before it closes, wrenching it back open.
My heart pounds. In the elevator doorway, the man’s head tilts like he can hear it.
My emotional-support corgi looks up from her Puppuccino and barks ashesteps into the elevator. Normal people turn to face the front, pretending like the other riders don’t exist.
Not Salinger Svensson.
The doors slam, trapping me with him. He crosses his arms, regarding me.
Did he hear me? He heard me, right? He had to. And I’m going to pay for it.
His gray eyes flick to the oversized Starbucks cup in my hand. “We provide coffee here, you know, instead of that overpriced flavored sugar water.”
“Sometimes you just want someone to hand you a personalized beverage and act happy to see you.” I clutch the cup, hating the tears that threaten to come.
I need to get it together. I need this job.
I wouldn’t be this unstable if it had been any other morning, if I had just had two-and-a-half minutes of time alone in the elevator to get my shit together before I had to face him.
I huddle in the back corner of the elevator as it lurches up.
The corner of his mouth twists into a triumphant sneer. “At the end of your rope? The office offers mental health days, you know. It’s a wonder you’ve lasted this long. I’d have thought you would have had a nervous breakdown months ago.”
“Joke’s on you.” The words come out in a rasp, my mouth dry from the earlier panic. “People with mortgage-sized student-loan debt don’t have the luxury of nervous breakdowns. Unlike some people in this elevator who don’t even do their own laundry.”
His lips thin then part slightly with a flash of teeth.
It reminds me of…
“I don’t know why you try and fight me,” he says. “We both know you’re going to crack like my last assistant.”
“Your last assistant didn’t have to spend her childhood fighting early-2000s beauty standards and a mom who liked to beat her over the head with seventies-diet-culture tips.”
The back and forth is aggravating but familiar. Safe. Closing my eyes, I take a long sip of the warm, sweet, slightly spiced coffee.
I am safe here. Well, not here in the elevator but generally in the office.
“Going to your happy place?”
“Oh yeah.” I open my eyes.
“Oh yeah?What do you fantasize about?” he purrs.
I choke on the coffee, and it dribbles down my chin. He’s never been sexually aggressive—gotten close a few times. This is weird.
“I, um—”
“It’s me, isn’t it?”
“I—that’s not—”
