His lip curls. “You smell like birthday cake. It’s revolting.”
“If you don’t like it, then don’t startle people.” My voice is shrill. My words might have been more intimidating if I didn’t realize just then there was icing on my face.
“Awfully smug words for someone who is dropping the ball.”
Mind racing, I scroll through my massive to-do list in my head. “I—I did?”
I want to slap the smug smile from his handsome face.
“Yes, Mandy, you did. The port contract?”
“I bought you tickets, I made the donation, I even offered to lend you my corgi. I did a good job!”
“You failed, however, to get me a date.” His sterling-silver pen taps against the leather blotter on his desk. “I can’t show up there by myself. It will look suspicious.”
“A what? A date? But… but… you have a girlfriend.”
“But… but…” The baritone is mocking. “You’re breaking up with her.”
The gears in my head grind to a halt. “I’m… what?”
“You are going to go break up with her over lunch today.” He says this like he’s asking me to pick up his dry cleaning.
“No. Man up and do it yourself.”
“Do it or quit.” The threat rumbles around the room. “I don’t have any use for you if you cannot follow simple instructions.”
His eyes roam from the top of my frizzy hair to my comfy shoes.
“It’s a nice restaurant, Mandy. Might want to do something about that. Oh, and,” he adds as I walk out in a daze, “while you’re out, buy me the same thing you ordered me yesterday for lunch. You managed to do something right, at least.”
Why didI have to spill coffee on myself? The anxiety and dread of going to a place where everyone is going to know immediately that I don’t belong churns in my stomach as I approach the fancy restaurant.
The doorman opens the door for me. Inside, I am the least well-dressed person by a mile. Even the bus boys are wearing crisp white shirts and ties.
“May I take your coat, ma’am?” one of the hosts offers in a calmly professional voice, holding out his hand.
“No!” The words are too loud in the posh restaurant. Heads turn to see what the commotion is.
Sweat puddles under my boobs, which are covered by the emergency T-shirt that readsI Heart Corgi Butts. It has a hole in the armpit.
Definitely not restaurant-appropriate.
“No, thank you,” I whisper. “I’m here to see someone. The reservation is under Salinger Svensson.”
“Mrs. Svensson, I presume?”
“That is an incorrect assumption.”
“My apologies, ma’am.”
The host leads me through the restaurant to a table in front of an expansive window where a beautiful young woman sits like a model on one of the plush chairs. Sheis peak Seattle—expensive yet understated clothes without labels, light-brown leather ankle boots, perfect blowout, subtle plastic surgery. Her boob job is good, not too big.
“This is a nice view.” I sway in my cheap plastic shoes.
Ignoring me, Alma continues to scroll through her phone.
I clear my throat. “Excuse me?”
