Page 9 of Hate You More

“So you’re not a journalist. And you didn’t know I was the CEO because you’re not here doing a piece.”

“Correct.” Threading my fingers together, I hold them in front of me. “I have no interest in you. Professionally or otherwise,” I add as my eyes betray my words. I don’t mean to do it, but he just looks so good.

“Not a journalist, but you’re not a waitress either. So what the fuck are you doing here?”

“You saw me down there,” I retort, my palm facing heavenward in demonstration. “Did I not have a tray in my hand?”

“Try again.”

“I. Was. Working.”

“You don’t work. You shop.”

“And you assume. You know what they say about assuming.”

“You travel. You tan.” His gaze runs critically over me. “You gossip and you bitch and you partake in cocktail hour, as is your station in life.”

He makes it all sound so shallow. Maybe because it is. He doesn’t know me, so he makes me out to be a caricature of my stepmother. A low blow, Troy. A low blow.

“Tanning is for teenagers, and I don’t drink these days.” Stimulants and booze do not good friends make. “Meanwhile, you manhandled me out of the room like an ugly centerpiece.” I press my hand to my cocked hip. Attack being the best form of defense, provided he didn’t hear the warble in there.

“Correction, I moved you out of the room before you could fuck anything else up.”

“Charming.”

“This is the last place I expected to see you again,” he utters icily.

“Well, it wasn’t my clone down there, serving finance bros and tech geeks stupid canapés while getting hit on by sleazeballs for the grand sum of twenty dollars an hour.”

Something flashes angrily across his face, and for a moment, I swear he’s about to ask who—who hit on me—when he says:

“Court-ordered community service?”

Stupid, treacherous heart.

“I suppose that’s a fair guess,” I say, my disappointment and anger leaking away. “We all have our prejudices. For instance, some might easily draw parallels between an animal shelter and a fintech company.” Because they’re both full of dogs.

“A waitress.” He scoffs.

“I prefer server.”

“So tell me, Clara. How did you come to be serving fucking Tater Tots in my office?”

“First of all.” I hold up my hand like I’m swearing allegiance. “I am not responsible for the menu. Blame someone else for that atrocity. Cupcakes decorated with fondant tables? What were they thinking?”

“I thought the cupcakes were kind of cute.”

“To each to their own, I suppose.” I pluck invisible lint from my shirt.

“Clara.”

“I’m getting there.” Despite declining a seat earlier, I find myself all but falling into one. Just as I guessed, there is no comfort here. Pressing my knees together, I smooth my hands over them and take a deep breath. “Once upon a time, a little girl in a beautiful Park Avenue palace put a picture of an apron on her vision board.”

“Clara.” The grit in his tone . . . does nothing for me.

“Fine.” I cross one leg over the other, then uncross them again at the sight of my ugly shoes and a clinging schmutz of fried potato. “It’s a simple story, but a boring one. You see, I’ve been cut off.” I throw up my hands like a magician’s ta-da! “What you see before you is a woman humbled by circumstance.”

“You don’t look very humble to me.”