Page 26 of Takeover

“Oh my God, did you come here to kill me?” she asks. I finally look at her. She’s still dressed in that tight, form fitting dress, but her jacket and shoes are off now, making her the shortest I’ve ever seen her. She’s still made up, but now she’s wearing a big, round pair of glasses.

“Here,” I say, shoving the bouquet of flowers in her face. She stares at me, then down at the bouquet, then back up at me.

“What is that?”

“Flowers,” I say slowly, dragging out the word.

“Is there poison ivy hidden in there?” She raises both hands and steps away from the flowers as if it’s a bomb that might detonate.

“Um, hydrangeas and lilies. No poison ivy anywhere.”

“Did you douse it with rat poison? Maybe ricin? Ebola?”

“I didn’t think of that. Damn. Too late now.” I leave her standing by the front door and place the vase in the middle of her small, round kitchen table. Without waiting for an invitation, I take off my jacket and drape it on the back of a chair.

“Listen,” she says, “I’m not in the mood for another fight right now. If you want to fight, come back tomorrow. I won’t be here, but feel free to come back. I’ve had all I’m gonna take from you. All I want to do tonight is eat an entire pizza by myself and wash it down with a bottle of cheap wine. Feel free to slither out of here now.”

She walks out of the kitchen, and this time, when the doorbell rings, she asks who it is. When the pizza delivery man gets there, I give him a couple of hundred-dollar bills while she looks for her purse. By the time she finds it, the man is gone, and I’m holding the pizza like it’s some kind of prize.

“I’m starving,” I say, realizing I haven’t eaten since lunch. Hell, I barely ate my lunch. I was so enraged when she left, and I spent the next thirty minutes finding out who in HR offered her the wrong position.

“Ethan, what are you doing here? Where’s Vinnie?”

I can’t help but be pleased that she asked about my son. Hell, for the past six weeks, I’ve thought about how she took care of him on Thanksgiving like it was second nature.

“He’s spending the weekend with his mother. And I’m here because things got ugly in my office this afternoon. I think we both said things we regret.” She looks at me, her eyes narrow behind those giant frames on her face.

She ignores me, opens the fridge, and pulls out an open bottle of white wine. She pulls the cork out and puts the bottle to her lips, taking loud gulps of the liquid. I stand, transfixed at the vision of her with the bottle to those plump lips. I stare too long at the sight of her lips wrapped around the top of the bottle. When my pants start to tighten, I busy myself looking through her cabinets for plates.

“I meant everything I said,” she finally says.

“Fine. So did I, but that doesn’t mean I should have said them. I want a truce.”

“No need for a truce.” She surprises me by coming to stand next to me. She points at the cabinets above her sink, and I grab two plates. “After tonight, we won’t ever see or talk to each other again.” She takes another sip from the bottle as she watches me, suspicion written all over her face. “I’d offer you some,” she says, pointing the bottle at me, “but I don’t want to.”

She’s jostled when I snatch the bottle from her and down the rest of the wine.

“Too bad because I take what I want, and you need better taste in wine. That’s awful.”

“I bet you’ve never been to a Bullseye in your life,” she says. She sighs and plops herself at the table, probably waiting on me to serve her, so I place a slice of pepperoni pizza in front of her and go search her fridge. I get water for both of us.

“I’m as familiar with Bullseye as I am with BradCo. They’re my main competition,” I say of the other discount chain stores.

“I’m going to shop there exclusively now,” she announces.

“Doubt it,” I tell her. “They don’t sell red bottom shoes or designer clothes.”

We eat in silence, and I watch as she eats the pizza as if she hasn’t eaten in days. When she’s done, she finishes the bottle of water without taking a breath. Then she grabs herself another slice.

“Thanks for the flowers,” she finally says. “You didn’t have to do that, though. I shouldn’t have barged into your office the way I did this afternoon. If you haven’t figured it out yet, I have a bit of a temper. But like I said, we won’t ever have to see each other again after today.”

“Right,” I tell her. “Definitely. You are very unpleasant.”

She snorts. “You’re an ogre. A very unattractive one.”

“Ogres by definition are supposed to be unattractive, are they not?”

“And you smell bad too. And your personality leaves a lot to be desired.”

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