“The fuck you will.”
“You’re a big boy,” she slurs angrily. “You are fully capable of sucking your own dick.”
“The hell did you just say to me?” I’m losing control—of my temper, of the contract, of Mandy, of the whole situation.
Aaron is frowning, probably running calculations as I dig this hole deeper and deeper, jacking up the rates on the premium. Every second I can’t bring Mandy to heel is costing me hundreds of thousands of dollars.
“Mandy, you better be in the office when I get there in an hour, so help me—”
The call disconnects.
Fitz sucks in a breath through his teeth. “Yikes, man, you really pissed her off.”
“Guess he’ll have to get on his knees and beg for her to cooperate.” Crawford rests his hands on his belt.
“No way she’s going to that dinner,” Fitz scoffs.
Aaron is slowly shaking his head.
“Or you could buy her flowers?” Fitz suggests.
“I’m not buying her a gift. Or flowers.” I barely have myself under control. “Aaron, I swear—Mandy is going to that dinner with me even if I have to throw her over my shoulder and carry her there.”
17
MANDY
“Get in my fucking office.”
Salinger is waiting for me at my desk when I drag myself in the next morning, hungover on cheesecake, tequila, and greasy nachos. Pepper, who also went a little hard on the tacos, has refused to walk and is dead weight in my arms.
My boss is furious.
He’s not the only one.
“You have no right to hang up on me.” His deep voice vibrates with rage. “And you will never do it again.”
I peer at him through oversized sunglasses. “Stop being such a spoiled manbaby. It was the middle of the night. I’m not coming in the office just because you snap your fingers.”
His voice lowers an octave. “Yes. You. Will. Your job is to do what I say, when I say it. Not to argue. Do you understand me?”
I slurp my overpriced Starbucks.
Salinger grabs my arm roughly. “I said, do you understand me?”
I would probably be scared if I hadn’t overdone it on the tequila last night. Instead, I’m just angry. I have never hated anyone as much as Salinger in that moment.
Not even my stalker.
I grab his wrist, and the band of his expensive watch digs into my palm. His hand doesn’t budge.
“And do you understand you don’t have a right to speak to people like that?” I struggle, trying to dislodge his grip. “You entitled, self-absorbed prick.”
I take it in—the dangerously handsome face, the slice of his mouth.
A mouth that is twisting into a smirk. “Are you being a petty little girl because you’re mad I made you cry?”
“Are you being a spoilt little brat because you’re mad I told you ‘no’?”
