Page 3 of Meet Hate Love
The tiny volcano of anger I kept reserved only for him blew. “Go fuck yourself,” I said, then flipped him off before walking away.
Was that an irrational reaction? Sure.
But, in my defense, I was already in an awful mood. Not only did the man make me irate by existing in the same office space, but that smirk… It was the same thigh-loosening, playboy smirk he’d given me months ago at his New Year’s Eve party. Right before he had pressed me to his bedroom wall, leaned in, kissed my neck, and whispered, “I heard you were easy.”
Heard you were easy?!
The man had actually uttered those words and thought, what? That it was the Fast Pass ticket to a one-night stand?
Well, I can tell you it most certainly was not. I wasn’t a violent woman, but the second that sentence left his stupid mouth, I balled my fist, pulled back my arm, and nailed him right in his misogynistic eye.
I wound through the cubicle aisles, then chucked my purse to the floor space beneath my desk before plopping down onto my spiny chair. Between the engagement invitation and Vance’s smirk, I needed to take a breath. A very deep, calming breath.
After I’d taken a not-so-cleansing breath, I booted up my computer and opened my email.
Followers wanted to know the best hotels in Miami and the tastiest Italian food in Sacramento. I’d just jotted down a potential pitch on solo travel when my phone vibrated on my desk.
I need an RSVP ASAP.
Kate. I clenched my teeth and growled like a feral cat. One on a fencepost with its back arched and scraggly hair on end.
“Angry short girl,” Vance’s voice came through the other side of the cubicle.
My attention went to the fabric-covered pressboard. “Colossal chauvinistic cretin.” Oh, that collection of words was good, and if there was one thing I appreciated, even when the universe was in the middle of taking a huge dump on me, it was a good word. “Cretin means idiot, in case your silence means you’re trying to look it up in your dictionary.”
“And necromancer means witch.”
I bit my lip.
Necromancer was a good word, but since I was not in the mood for this back and forth to go on for another ten minutes, I skipped right past calling him an amoral fuckboy and went for the jugular. “You vanquished woebegone flop—that means you lost—who isn’t going to Paris because the woman who gave him a black eye won the pitch instead of him.”
Ah, nowthatwas silence.
Blissful, beautiful, butthurt silence because my one good-luck incident this month had been my winning the pitch for the holy grail of all assignments. Two whole weeks of European travel.
I had four more days in this cubicle hell, and as long as I didn’t lose my passport or Wanderlust didn’t go bankrupt and lay off everyone, I would be on a Paris-bound flight in roughly ninety-six hours.
I wouldn’t have to deal with Vance, his smirks, or his annoyingly deep laugh that rumbled daily through that stupid divider. Bonus to that, I wouldn’t have to deal with my boss, Amanda, or the old lady who lived next to me and sang the most ear-splitting renditions of Mariah Carey to her fifteen cats, and most importantly of all, I wouldn’t have to deal with my traitorous sister and her dumb engagement party.
That trip was going to be myEat, Pray, Lovemoment. My chance to forget about the shit-covered wrecking ball leveling everything in my life while I gorged myself on European pastries and museums. Honestly, I wasn’t even sure if I’d come back to Manhattan. Maybe I’d just disappear. Take up a new identity…
Vance’s snort bled through the thin makeshift wall. “I hope the next stage of your life comes with a ladder.”
Two short-person jabs in a matter of ten minutes?
My gaze strayed to the scissors on my desk, and I wondered how far through the divider I could ram them. The blades were a mere four inches long, so not far enough. My attention went to the Magic Eight Ball shaped like a bare ass. Maybe if I launched it over the divider, I could knock him out.
Angry footsteps padded over the carpet before Margot and her windblown mane of red hair rounded the corner of my cubicle. “Fuck your sister! And fuck Jimbo!” She chucked her oversized purse onto my workspace, then rummaged through it. “The nerve of her sending you a stupid invitation to her stupid engagement to that stupid-ass man. I hope you’re in Paris getting railed by some Frenchman while she’s opening bags of dog shit.” She pulled a crumpled bag from her purse. “Because that’s what I’m sending to her party—a bag of dog shit.” She thrust the item toward me. But after what she’d just said, I didn’t reach for it.
“Margot, if that’s dog shit, I don’t want it.”
“It’s not. It’s yourbon voyagepresent.”
I took it and peeked inside at a collection of lace thongs. “Margot…” I cocked an inquisitive brow, my gaze lifting to her face. “Why are you buying me lingerie?”
“To help. French men expect sexy underwear.”
I opened my mouth to remind her that the “French” guy she’d picked up at Tiki Ted’s last year was just a guy from Idaho faking a French accent, but she held up her hand to silence me. “And before you even try to argue, full-assed, sensible, white cotton is not sexy underwear.”
