I stop.
I reach down, under a pile of papers, and pull out a thick red folder. The tab says, in my neat handwriting, Mason Daniel.
It was in his damn office the whole time, if he’d ever bothered doing even the slightest bit of looking for it.
“Katherine,” a voice booms behind me.
I jump. I whirl to see Mr. Fowler, dressed in his 3-piece suit as if it’s an ordinary weekday. I’m holding the file in my death grip. “I—“
He looks down at the folder. “It’s about time you found that. You’re lucky Jones’ doesn’t have your ass for that stunt.”
“But I—“
He holds up a finger and flicks off the banker’s lamp on his desktop. “I’m on my way to a lunch meeting. Walk with me. Let’s have a talk.”
I swallow. His “talks” are never pleasant things. It’s never a conversation. It’s mostly just him yelling at me, mile-a-minute, like gunfire. But I scurry after him in the narrow hallway as he strides importantly down the hallway, adjusting the collar of his expensive custom suit jacket.
No small talk, no asking after my family. Instead he says, “You understand you very nearly lost your job for that stunt?”
Stunt. He keeps calling it that, as if I planned it, as if I was ski-jumping over sharks for their amusement or something. “But you see, I found the folder on your desk.”
He narrows his eyes. “What?”
In that instant, I know what’s going to happen. He’s going to accuse me of lying. I can see it in those cloudy eyes of his, in that self-important stiff jerk of his head. He expects people to nod along and agree, and anything else is unacceptable. He will never let me, a low-life intern, be the one to school him. If I try, he’ll call me difficult and have just another thing to hold against me. “Um . . . nothing,” I mumble.
“You have an attitude problem, don’t you, Miss Donahue?” he says, taking the stairs down. “The thing you young people don’t seem to get is that nothing can substitute for hard work. You can’t just go on week-long vacations on a whim and expect the work to get done.”
A week long vacation? You know that’s not what it was! I told you, asshole! And I haven’t even been gone from work yet—it’s still the weekend!
I’m screaming it in my head, but doing a hell of a good job keeping my composure on the outside. I nod. “Yes sir.”
I follow my boss outside, where the hot sun is baking the sidewalk, and the first thing I catch sight of is Dax, leaning against his Mustang, this time leafing through some Boston Apartment Rentals magazine, eyes goggling at the prices. I’m still gaping at how freaking gorgeous he is when Fowler spins suddenly, facing me. “And another thing . . .”
I blink back to him and the smile that was threatening to creep over my face dissolves. But not before Fowler catches it, and scowls.
“This isn’t a joke. You keep thinking this is funny and you’ll be out on your ear faster than you can say unemployment,” he says, clearly pleased with himself.
My face heats. The last thing I need is to be reamed out by boss in public, in front of Dax, of all people. Some big, fancy, important person I am. “I understand,” I whisper to my boss, hoping he’ll drop it.
He doesn’t. He shakes his head disappointedly. “It’s a great inconvenience to me to be one man down unexpectedly like this. I expect you to put in double time when you get back, with no overtime pay. Do you hear me?”
Tears sting my eyes suddenly. Of course I hear him, he’s standing only inches away from my face, yelling loud enough for the entire city block to turn around and take notice, and his breath smells like old coffee. I shrink back, nodding, praying to myself, Please let this be over. “Yes,” I murmur, my eyes scanning the sidewalk for a sewer grate to climb under.
“Do you understand?” He barks again, his sour breath on my face.
I open my mouth to say yes but another voice breaks in, low and controlled. “She said she did.”
My eyes dart toward the Mustang, but Dax is no longer lounging there, relaxed and waiting. Now he’s striding toward us, determined. His jaw is set and his lip is curled in disgust. I know what that look means.
I saw that same look in the cafeteria, right before he punched Stephen Andrews.
Oh, no.
I put up a hand to stop him when Mr. Fowler turns toward Dax, a disinterested smirk on his face. He regards him as if he’s piece of scattered trash left on the ground, then his eyes are back on me. “If you know what’s good for you—“
“If you know what’s good for you, you’ll leave her alone,” Dax breaks in, edging closer.
My heart jams into my throat. I put a hand on his solid, broad chest, holding him back. “Dax. Don’t,” I mumble, looking pleadingly into his eyes. That emerald green is now tinged with fire. “I’ve got this under control.”