Page 8 of Forget Me

“But I—”

She leaned closer, and her voice dropped to a whisper. “I’ll warn every nonprofit in the Bay Area about you. Not even the animal shelter will let you scoop cat shit. Understand?”

I blinked at her uncharacteristic crudeness. “I—of course. It was truly an accident.”

She flashed me a chilly smile. “Women like us can’t afford screw-ups like today. Take my advice: whatever caused this one, cut it out of your life.”

“Absolutely.” I nodded. I could promise her that.

She swept out of the café in a cloud of expensive perfume and a click of red-soled heels.

I stared down at the coffee-stained napkins Jackson had left piled around my laptop.

A server scurried over to me. “That’ll be nine ninety.”

“Nine ninety?” I hadn’t had so much as a black coffee or a gluten-free biscotti. Still, I reached for my wallet.

“That blond chick didn’t pay for her skinny latte.”

I handed over a ten, then a couple of singles.

“Thanks.” The server swept the empty mugs and napkins onto her tray and whirled away.

It figured that Larissa was too concerned with the management of a multimillion-dollar foundation to concern herself with the minutiae of ten-dollar lattes. The next time I saw her, I wouldn’t say a word about it. I’d call it an investment in the assistant-director position.

Which I wanted. Badly.

Nothing would prevent me from nailing this gala and proving to her and to Jackson Jones that I was assistant-director material.

I picked up my coffee-scented laptop.

Not even Mateo Rivera would stop me.

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