Looking over my shoulder, I catch his gaze. I’ve never seen my boss so enraged. His eyes are almost black, he’s so mad.
Scooping up the dog in my arms, I follow him into the private elevator, needing the corgi as a furry shield to protect me from the anger radiating from Salinger.
A black limo is waiting for us outside the lobby of his luxury high-rise. The driver opens the door.
Everything in me screams to run away.
Instead, I climb into the car.
Salinger sits next to me.
The doors slam. I sit inside, feeling like I’m riding to my own execution.
12
SALINGER
Next to me in the dark car, Mandy twists her hands in her lap. The diamond earrings cascading down her neck glint in the passing headlights.
The dog sits on the seat between us, snuffling and licking its nose, digging its paws into the leather seat.
I’m trying to concentrate on my pitch, on making sure the evening is a perfect success. Except all I can think about is my assistant in that skintight dress with no panties, on her hands and knees on my living room floor.
It’s infuriating how desirable I found it—the thin fabric of the dress stretched out over her ass, outlining the bare skin underneath. The only thing between me and her cunt. Nothing else.
If she had just done her job right, I wouldn’t be fantasizing about her. This is all her fault. She’s my assistant—she’sa nobody. She has zero sex appeal and is the furthest thing from my type.
Not tonight.
Mandy stares straight ahead, lips pursed, body taut. Every so often, a street light highlights the curve of her breast, exposed in that too-tight dress, framed by a million-dollar necklace, the diamonds slipping over her bare skin. The metal will be cool on my face as I suck the hot, pink…
My jaw clenches so tight a molar is about to crack.
I cannot, will not, am not attracted to my assistant.
The torture of the ride finally ends when the limo pulls up in front of the recently restored Puget Palace Hotel.
As much as I want to walk in and leave her and her dog to fend for themselves, I instead stride stiffly around the back of the limo and open the door for her.
Her lips part like she’s about to thank me, then she stops herself, apparently thinking better of it.
If she bends down again, I’m going to lose it.
Pushing Mandy out of the way, ignoring how soft her skin is under my hand, I grab the dog out of the car and set it down.
The animal flops onto the pavement.
“I need to carry her. She doesn’t like to walk,” Mandy explains, about to bend down again.
“Shocking.”
I beat her to it, scooping the dog back up and tucking her under my arm, offering my other to Mandy.
I hate charity dinners on a good day—all the narcissists patting themselves on the back for giving one percent of their yearly disposable income to a charity run by oneof their friends while they spend more than that on their dresses, shoes, and jewelry.
And today had been a terrible day.
The historic ballroom is packed with animals—dogs, cats, birds, rodents. One woman has a monkey perched on her enormous hat. It bares its teeth and screeches at me. In my arms, Pepper barks.
