Page 4 of Playing Dirty
"Berta," he echoes, that infuriating grin widening even further. "Right. I remember you being more organized than the entire management staff combined."
"Well, I'm thrilled my organizational skills left such a mark. Too bad they didn't protect my job, seeing asyouare the reason I was fired." I jab a finger toward his chest.
The amusement vanishes from his expression instantly. "I didwhat?"
"You got me fired," I repeat, ignoring the small responsible voice in my head telling me to stop talking. She's losing out to three glasses of wine and an apparently bottomless grudge. "My boss asked me what I thought about bringing you on for the brand, and then my opinion found its way back to your team. Two weeks later, they fired me."
"Huh." He tips the bottle back, looking thoughtful. "How bad was the opinion?"
"It wasn't that bad. I just suggested you weren't the right fit, and that…" I shift my weight, a small, unwelcome flicker of guilt surfacing. "That maybe you were too unrefined to suit the brand."
"That'sit?" He laughs. "I've heard worse from my mother before breakfast."
"Well, it cost me my job, so I've never found the humor in it." I give him my most withering look.
"Fair enough," he says, the laugh fading. "I never knew about any of that, for what it's worth. And I wouldn't have cared at all if I had. My old management team apparently had very thin skin. They're long gone, if that helps."
"It helps a little," I admit.
"Look, I'm sorry you lost your job over me. And for being late to all those meetings back then, while we're settling debts." He runs a hand through his hair. "I was new to all of it. The deals, the money, the people whose whole job was telling me how great I was. I let it go to my head."
It's a nice speech, but I just don't buy it. The Cillian O'Rourke I've read about, the arrogant golden boy, the serial heartbreaker, doesn't strike me as someone who's done much growing up in the last six years. But I've poked the future face of this project enough for one evening.
"Well, apology accepted." I tip my glass at him with my most gracious smile. "And I'm sorry if I've come across a bit prickly. One too many glasses of wine and I let some old baggage do the talking. But I really am looking forward to this partnership."
About as much as I look forward to a tax audit, but he doesn't need to know that.
"Clean slate, then?" he asks, smiling brightly.
"Clean slate." I lift my glass. "With your reach and my expertise, this should be a great launch."
"Right." He clinks his beer against my glass, still smiling. "So, despite that lovely performance you just gave, I take it you actually despise me?"
Shit. Maybe he's more perceptive than I gave him credit for.
"What? No, no, that's not it at all," I say, maybe a little too quickly.
His grin only widens.
I clear my throat and try again, slower this time. "I don'tdislike anyone, actually. I make a point of finding something to appreciate in everyone, even the people I don't click with right away. I just… wanted to clear the air before Monday."
In my head, of course, this conversation went very differently. He'd have recognized me right away and felt horribly guilty, and I'd have been gracious and devastating. Instead I had to remind him who I am. The whole thing is mortifying.
He stops, the bottle poised halfway to his lips. "Wait a second. Did you just claim you don't dislikeanyone?"
"I did. Setting aside the obvious exceptions for murderers, bigots, the truly terrible." I shift my weight, wondering why he's fixating on such a minor point. "But for the rest of us? Most people are just navigating life as best they can. There's usually a redeeming quality if you're willing to look for it."
"I see." He gives a slow nod, his expression unreadable. "I'm guessing you grew up here in California."
I feel a prickle of annoyance, like I'm missing the punchline. "Born and raised. Why?"
"That explains the outlook. You all are so optimistic. It's a bit jarring for those of us who carry a healthy dose of spite." He tips the beer toward me. "Because it'simpossibleto like everyone. For example, I'm fairly certain you don't like me at all."
"Well, I'm capable of anything I set my mind to, so let's be clear about that." I lift slightly on my toes, a futile attempt to bridge the eight-inch height gap between us. "Though I'll admit, some people make the effort significantly harder than others."
I shoot him a pointed look. He laughs, loud enough that several heads turn in our direction. A cluster of women by the bar shoot me dagger eyes over their wine glasses, clearly furious that I've stolen his attention. If only they knew. They're more than welcome to this asshole.
"And here I was told Carol's right-hand woman was the picture of sweet, endless patience. I'm assuming that's you?" Herakes his eyes over me, and I can feel a flush creeping up my neck.
