Melt for You (Slow Burn #2)(2)
It’s a present from my mother. I must’ve done some truly awful things in a previous life.
“Why didn’t you just say no, Joellen?”
Sue Wong, recent college grad and youngest person to be promoted to the position of acquisitions editor in Maddox Publishing’s eighty-year history, stands at the entrance of my cubicle. Sue has shiny black hair that falls to her shoulders, a fringe of bangs so precise it looks like it was sliced with an X-ACTO blade, and an adorable pair of dimples that make her look years younger than her actual age of twenty-three.
I am insanely jealous of those dimples. And of how she can consume approximately five thousand calories per day and never gain an ounce. And of how she is not terrified one bit of Portia, Dragon Queen of the Upper East Side, or of anything else as far as I can tell.
“Because I’ll get fired if I say no! I have these little things called bills? Rent? You’ve heard of them?”
Sue finds my logic faulty and waves a hand dismissively in the air. “Pfft. They’ll never fire you. You’re a workhorse.”
For an unpleasant moment, I imagine myself as a Clydesdale with steam billowing from my nostrils, clumps of dirt flying behind my thick fetlocks as I pull a Budweiser hitch through Central Park.
“And you’ve been here forever,” Sue continues. “Besides, you’re in a protected class. Portia wouldn’t want to risk a lawsuit.”
Genuinely confused, I stare at her. “What protected class is that?”
“Age,” she says, as if it’s obvious.
“Age?”
“Yeah. You’re, like, totally old.”
“I’m thirty-six!”
“Oh. Really?” She looks me up and down. “Huh.”
I say drily, “Thanks. Are we done with the pep talk? Because I’ve got a ton of work to do.”
“I just wanted to see if you felt like going to that new tapas place after work. A bunch of us are going for happy hour.”
She’s being nice because I’m so pitiful, which makes me feel even worse. “It’s sweet that you always include me, but . . .” I gesture helplessly at the sheaf of papers Portia left on my desk.
“Okay. Maybe next time.” Sue departs with a shrug and a smile.
I spend the next few hours at my desk with my nose buried in pages. I keep at it long after everyone else has gone home for the weekend, long after any sane person would’ve packed it in.
Maybe I ate my sanity with the gallon of ice cream I had for dinner last night.
By the time I get back to my apartment, I’ve got a headache that feels like a serial killer is drilling a hole into the top of my head with a rusty drill bit soaked in hot sauce. My plan is to eat something, get a few hours of sleep, and get back into the office bright and early to work on the manuscript. Normally I can work on my projects from home using the computer, but paper files aren’t allowed to leave the building for security reasons, so I’m stuck going back to my desk.
Thank you, Portia.
As soon as I step off the elevator, I hear the music. It’s extremely loud and thumping with bass—some kind of rock. Or maybe rap. I can’t tell for sure. All I know is that the lyrics include a few words that would curl my mother’s hair.
As I walk down the hall, I’m alarmed to discover the music is coming from the apartment directly across from mine. Judging by all the voices and raucous laughter, my neighbor isn’t alone.
Kellen never has parties.
Irritated, I pull up my coat sleeve and look at my watch. I debate whether or not I should knock on his door, but my stomach is making some aggressive rumbling noises that manage to penetrate through the thundering bass, so I decide to eat first and deal with Kellen on a full stomach.
In the event of a nuclear war, the first thing I’d do is eat. I can’t handle life when I’m hungry.
As soon as I unlock my door, Mr. Bingley attacks.
“Rr-ow!” He stands on his hind legs and sinks his claws into my skirt.
“I know, baby, I’m sorry I’m so late. Mommy’s gonna feed you right now, okay?”
Another howl tells me I better, or there will be hell to pay.
I scratch behind Mr. Bingley’s ears, talking baby talk to him the way he likes, which makes him sink his claws deeper into my skirt in pleasure, which in turn makes me wince in pain, keeping the eternal feline/human relationship in balance. He’s lucky he’s so adorable, or I might . . . do nothing. Never mind.
When it comes to Mr. Bingley, we both know who’s in charge.
I close the front door, drop my purse on the table in the foyer, avoid looking at myself in the mirror, and hang my coat in the closet. Then I head to the kitchen, Mr. Bingley trotting at my heels.
He’s a bossy, plump ginger tabby cat with amber eyes and a fluffy plume of a tail. He’s also totally deaf—the unfortunate side effect of a reaction to antibiotics prescribed for an ear infection. He doesn’t seem to mind, however, or even realize he’s handicapped. I think he’s learned how to read lips.
The only problem is that I can’t sneak up behind him. I startled him once, and he ended up hanging by his claws from the living room curtains, wild eyed and hissing.
“You’re lucky you can’t hear that music,” I tell him, removing a can of cat food from the cupboard. “Somebody sounds like they have anger management issues.”