Who's the Boss? - Erin McCarthy Page 0,15
back to me.
“I don’t fuck and tell,” I told her dryly. “But let’s just say I could have used an IV of fluids by the end of the week.”
A snort escaped her mouth. “You’re a tool. I knew it in the elevator and you just confirmed it.”
“And you’re aggressive and angry for no reason whatsoever.” We had definitely gotten off on the wrong foot on the elevator and I wasn’t even sure why. I didn’t even remember what we had said to each other prior to the elevator grinding to a painful and terrifying halt.
I don’t do small spaces. I don’t like being trapped. Spelunking can suck a dick, it’s never going to happen. I won’t use the restroom on a plane, ride in a mini Cooper, or enter a small closet. The freezers in kitchens freak me the fuck out but I have a whole system of propping them open and making sure I always have my phone with me. Even Murphy beds disturb me.
It stemmed from a childhood incident involving my father’s wine cellar. I’d walked into it, entranced by all the labels on the bottles. But right as I was studying a label with an almost naked woman drawn on it, the door had clicked shut. I had gotten trapped in the closet for nearly an hour before my mother found the origin of my screams. I still can’t look at certain chardonnays without breaking into a sweat.
It’s irrational, it’s stupid, and I hate it, but I can’t seem to make it go away.
Being trapped makes me a prick and I could tell Isla that, but it would mean I’d have to admit I had been afraid and now was not the time to offer up my vulnerabilities on a platter. If I handed her that ammunition, she’d be locking me in the freezer every chance she got, hoping I’d quit. She looked capable of that, easily.
“Do you mean I’m angry now, or in the elevator?” she asked. “Because when you got in the elevator, I smiled at you. I tried to be nice, and you dismissed me. You didn’t even smile back.”
Oh, so that was it. Her pride had been pricked. The reality had been I had gotten into the elevator against my better judgment. Normally I took the stairs but I had told myself it was only four floors, what were the odds anything would happen? So when I got in the elevator I had barely noticed her. I was concentrating on holding my annoying and irrational fear at bay.
I sipped my drink and eyed her. “I don’t love elevators. It was nothing personal. Besides, I believe you called me an asshole at least once. You made your point.” Right before she had kissed me. Or had I kissed her? It was hard to say. It was more like a mutual meeting of the mouths.
“Fine,” she said shortly. “Why am I here, exactly? What is this supposed to accomplish? Other than treating me to the joy of hearing about your manwhore days.”
Yep. Angry. “I thought we could clear the air about me being sprung on you at the meeting. Like I said, I thought you already knew. The question is how do we work together as a team going forward.”
She made a face and rolled her eyes.
“That’s a reassuring response.” I raised my drink in salute.
“Why did you kiss me?” she asked.
The question caught me off guard.
“Because you looked like you wanted me to.”
It was the wrong answer. I knew it the minute the words left my mouth.
It was confirmed when she threw her drink in my face.
Or she would have if she hadn’t been sipping a vodka on the rocks. Mostly what happened when she tried to toss liquid in my direction was the ice shifted around in her glass. One piece slipped out and did hit me in the chest but the bulk of the ice held back until gravity yanked the cubes out and they fell between our legs to the floor. The vodka followed it, mostly landing on Isla’s knee.
“Great talk,” I told her.
Three
Sean was just watching me impassively, the corner of his mouth turning up as he fought a smile. The ice cube that had hit him in the chest bounced off and he had caught it and popped it into his mouth. His teeth crunched into the ice and I seethed.
He hadn’t even had the decency to jump when I’d attempted to throw my drink in his face. It’s