Page 12 of Hate You More

“What do you care?”

“Just making conversation.” Fishing for holes in her story, more like.

“They’re nice people. Salt of the earth.” Her gaze slices my way. “Unlike some of the assholes that work for you.”

“Meaning what?”

“Just that one or two of them might benefit from a visit from HR. Maybe some sexual harassment training. Or a course on how not to intimidate waitstaff.”

“Intimidated, you?” I slide my hands into my pockets, my brows pulling tight. “Not possible.” Her sigh sounds weary. “All right, I’ll bite. Who?”

“Again, what do you care?”

“I’m asking, aren’t I?” If there’s truth to this, the idiot won’t be working for Table for long. “What’d he look like?”

“Generic nouveau riche.” She bites each word out.

“Like me, then?”

She shoots me an unflattering look.

“Ouch.” I press my hand to my heart.

“Just some asshole who drives a Porsche, okay?”

“That narrows it down,” I mutter.

She draws to a stop and pivots to face me. “Please don’t tell me that’s what you drive.”

“What’s wrong with a Porsche?”

“But whatever will you buy when your midlife crisis hits?”

“Maybe I’ll just ask your dad.”

“That kind of ride is a heck of a lot pricier than a Porsche.” She spins away, back straight, eyes strictly ahead.

“O-kay.” I must’ve hit a raw nerve. She turns left, heading for the service elevator, I belatedly realize. “Wait,” I say, catching her elbow.

“Will you stop doing that?” She jerks from my hold, her expression a mixture of pissed and hurt.

I lift both hands. “You’re going the wrong way.” I will not feel bad, I think bitterly. Not after the hell she caused my family. And yet . . . “The guy you’re talking about, was it the one I saw you with downstairs?”

“I wasn’t with him. I was being harassed by him.”

That motherfucker.

“And I’m going out the way I came in. And no, that’s not a ‘That’s what she said’ joke.”

“There’s a car waiting downstairs. The main entrance.”

“Of course there is.” She gives a sigh but turns in the direction I indicate, though pauses at the top of the escalator. “I wasn’t planning on sneaking back in, if that’s what you think.”

“I think the customary response is to express thanks when someone arranges your transport home.”

“That’s not what this is about.” She steps onto the elevator without waiting for my response.

I nod at the one guy left behind the reception desk, then pull on the nearest glass door. Outside, the rain has eased from a torrent to a fine mist, and the car I ordered idles by the curb.