“Yes, you do.” He takes a step toward me. “You fantasize about me.” His baritone is smug. Self-assured.
Just that one time. I was very drunk. I got over it and signed up for that god-forsaken singles mixer. Really, if you think about it, everything that’s wrong in my life right now is because of him.
“And about how you want to kill me,” he adds.
“Right!” My relieved laughter echoes in the tight space. “Kill you.Right.I was totally fantasizing about drowning you in a vat of roasted-toasted caramel syrup.”
“What the fuck is that?”
“Seriously? It’s the latest in Starbucks’s monthly themed syrup promotions. You’re one of the investors, Mr. Svensson. You’re on their board. You know how hard it is out there for a corporation trying to pander to middle-aged millennial women. We have the attention span of a cricket.” I slurp the coffee.
“You’re not middle-aged,” he says quickly.
“I’m in my thirties. Compared to the college-age girls you usually sleep with, I’m shocked you don’t think I’m geriatric.”
His jaw works. He’s mad. I know he’s mad. Usually I wait to detonate that particular weapon until later in the week, not at 8:12 on a Tuesday, but like I said, it’s been a morning.
“Pathetic.” His voice has dropped an octave.
Oh shit.
The elevator is still climbing up, the numbers flashing slowly.
I’m unsteady as he takes a step toward me.
“Is that why you want me dead? Because you’re bitter and jealous?”
Everything in me is screaming,You’re trapped, trapped!
My face turns away from him.
He rests one hand on the cool metal wall behind my head.
“Mandy, Mandy, Mandy.” He’s mocking me. “Next time you want to threaten me, man up and do it to my fucking face.” His fist slams into the wall next to my head.
I bite back a scream.
The elevator dings.
The doors open.
Salinger adjusts his suit jacket and steps out.
He doesn’t hold the door for me as I rush to collect my corgi, our drinks, and all my bags.
The elevator doors jam into my arm before I can step off. “Ow!”
I wouldn’t put it past him to have tinkered with it to make sure the doors close extra-fast just for this moment.
The tears threaten again.
Because he doesn’t know that I wasn’t talking about him—I was talking about theotherhorrible man I wish I could violently and permanently remove from my life.
Pepper yelps as I schlep us to the bathroom, praying it’s empty.
It’s not. Of course it’s not.
The brand-new college interns collectively pause in front of the mirror as I stumble in, huffing and puffing, with my laptop bag, corgi, lunchbox, oversize purse, and garment bag with my boss’s dry cleaning.
