Page 66 of Mario
It is not far. That is what I tell myself. It is a normal drive. I know the route. I have driven tired before.
Except my eyes feel gritty, my body feels loose and heavy, and my mind keeps slipping in and out of focus in a way that makes me deeply aware of how stupid pride can be.
Would it be completely unprofessional to take a twenty-minute nap in my car before driving home?
Yes. Obviously.
Humiliatingly unprofessional.
A managing partner does not curl up in the driver’s seat of her sensible sedan in the client’s parking garage and nap like a student catching a snooze between classes.
Then again, a managing partner also does not fantasize about her client’s mouthall over her, yet here we are.
I look around the garage.
It is pretty much empty.
Everyone else is probably gone. Even if someone sees me, I can pretend I dropped something. Or that I was checking my phone. Or that I briefly lost consciousness in some sort of dignified, professional way.
I unlock the car.
I open the driver’s door and lean in to put my briefcase onto the passenger seat.
Just twenty minutes.
Enough to get my eyes focused. Enough to make the drive safe. Enough to avoid becoming the lead story on a local news segment about a corporate attorney who drove herself into a lamppost because she was overworked and sleep deprived.
I am just about to slide into the seat when a voice comes from behind me.
“You should not be driving.”
I yelp. And it was definitely not a small, dignified sound.
Startled and mortified, I whirl around so fast my shoulder hits the open car door, keys clenched between my fingers like a weapon.
Mario Conti stands several feet away, one hand in the pocket of his coat, watching me with the kind of stillness that should be impossible.
“Jesus,” I snap, pressing a hand to my chest. “Do not do that.”
His gaze drops to my keys.
Then back to my face, and I’m not too tired to notice the slight amusement.
“Were you planning to stab me?”
“Yes,” I say incredulously because, apparently, my professionalism has gone all the way out the window. “That’s what happens when you creep up on a woman in a parking garage.”
“I did not creep.”
“You appeared eerily silently behind me. That is creeping.”
Do I see a small smile on his lips?
I hate that I notice. And that it’ll probably play a role in whatever dream is torturing me tonight.
“You were not paying attention,” he says.
“I was alone.”
