“Yes, a drink, because that’s what adults do. Wouldn’t you like to be an adult?” I head to the bar. “I can pour you a drink. Maybe give you some Vicodin with it so I don’t have to interact with you for the rest of the evening.”
“We need to get our story straight,” Dani presses, following me into the penthouse with all her bags.
Lulu gets hit on the head and yelps as Dani tries to rummage around in her bag.
“We? There is no ‘we.’ We don’t need to do anything. This is a decision you made, and you need to deal with the consequences.” I rescue Lulu from the snarl of bags.
“Then why did you—”
“What?” I turn back to the scotch I’m pouring into a glass.
“You know, why were you”—she gestures helplessly—“like thatat the end of the party?”
“Like what?” I unbutton my suit jacket and sit down on the couch. “You said you wanted me to be your boyfriend. That’s how I act with the women I’m dating.”
“Like an immature asshole?”
“You liked it.” I take a sip of the scotch. “I’m your deepest, darkest fantasy, remember?” I spread my arms wide.
“I’m not fantasizing about you!” she screeches then dumps the entire contents of her purse all over my couch.
I swear, loudly, as paper clips bounce all over my lap.
“Why are they pink?”
Dani’s not frightened.
She grabs a handful of multicolored gel pens and a grid-paper notebook and sits down on the coffee table to face me.
“Focus. How did we meet?”
I pinch the bridge of my nose. “You seriously don’t want any money?”
“Sex club?” she rattles off. “Dating app? We mixed up each other’s coffee orders?”
“I kidnapped you and immediately regretted it, and now I’m being punished with eternal damnation by having you in my house.”
She opens the cinnamon-bun box and rummages around in it, not paying attention.
“And pick up your paper clips before your poor dog chokes.” I snatch up Lulu and wrestle a slobbery paper clip out of her mouth.
Dani takes a sip from my scotch glass.
“I offered you one,” I hiss through gritted teeth.
“I just wanted a sip—this pairs very nicely with cinnamon buns. Oh, I know,” she says around the pastry, “we could say we met at a bakery.”
“I don’t go to bakeries.”
“Fine, a scotch bar.”
“That’s not a thing.” I scowl. “You read all those trashy romance novels. Can’t you just steal one of those ideas?”
“I don’t read romance novels.” She coughs.
“Liar.”
“Did you snoop on my phone?” she shrieks.
