“Thank you for the beverage," he adds, “I don’t recall requesting an iced coffee, but I guess it’s better than nothing, right?” He raises his eyebrows when I don’t answer.
“I guess,” I mutter, finding my voice.
“So,” he says, glancing at me again. “Is there a reason you’re not weighed down with my freshly pressed shirts?”
He takes the lid off the cup and frowns as he examines the contents. I stand there, my anger growing by the second. Seriously? What the hell does he think I've done? Tried to poison him?
“What, are you checking for those laxatives?” I snap, creasing my eyebrows. “And I’m not weighed down with your shirts because you already had someone else pick them up, remember?”
“Oh. Right,” he says, nodding slowly, a glint in his eye. “My mistake. I guess it slipped my mind. And as for whether I think you may have tampered with my drink?” He shrugs, his eyes gleaming. “After this morning, why would I trust you at all?” He holds the cup out to me. “Do me a favor? Take a sip.”
“Are you serious?" I ask him with a laugh. Then I frown because I’m not sure whether to take it from his hands or not. “You really believe that I might have drugged it?"
“No. I just get off on watching women drink my coffee," he retorts in a deadpan tone.
“Fine,” I sigh.
If it will shut him up. I snatch the cup from his hands and gulp down half its contents. Smiling at him, I hand it back. He frowns when he sees most of his coffee is gone.
“Satisfied?" I ask sweetly.
“Almost," he murmurs. He motions to the chair on the other side of his desk. “Sit down," he commands. I do as I’m told, still cringing over earlier and not sure what he wants with me now, other than to embarrass me further.
“Are you happy working here, Alana?" he asks.
He shifts forward in his seat and runs his hand over the light stubble covering his jawline, which sends a shiver down my spine. What I wouldn’t give to be the one running my hand over that. God, I can feel my nipples hardening at the thought.
I stare at him, remembering he just asked me a question. His eyes are serious like he’s given this a lot of thought. I don’t care how unhappy I might seem, I never expected him to be the person who noticed. I hesitate, not sure whether to be honest with him about this or not.
What have I got to lose?
At this point, I'm probably a couple of sentences away from being fired anyway.
“I'm happy,” I say, choosing my words carefully. “I just wish you would give me more responsibility. All I seem to do is fetch your coffee and collect your dry cleaning—”
“You returned without my shirts and with a cold coffee,” he reminded me.
“Neither of which were my fault,” I say defensively. “You had someone else pick them up already. You sent me out chasing my tail around for no other reason than to amuse yourself.”
“Well, that’s not entirely true,” he murmurs, his lips creeping into a grin. “How else would I have gotten this delicious coffee?” I narrow my eyes at him, and his smirk widens. “Alana, have you read the job description for your role? If anything, letting you handle the responsibility of fetching my coffee is a step up.”
“You’re an asshole, you know that?” I say, not bothering to hide my annoyance any longer. I’m about five promotions overqualified for the role I’m in now, and he knows it. “Fire me, don’t fire me, I don’t care. But I’m not going to sit here and let you walk all over me.”
“Okay, the dry cleaning was just an innocent mistake on my part,” he replies, folding his arms across his chest. “But how can I give you more responsibility when you’ve repeatedly shown me that you can't even get the simplest of tasks right?" he asks. He picks up his cup and drinks the rest of his coffee. “Like my coffee, for example.”
“Excluding today, one time in probably three or four hundred coffees, I’ve forgotten to get your goddamn sugar, and that's your reasoning behind not recognizing what I can do?” I practically shout. Tears sting my eyes, but I won’t give him the satisfaction of seeing me cry.
Breath, Alana. Don’t let him win this.
My fingers fidget in my lap as I try to control my tears. I do not want to lose my grip in front of him because it’s exactly what he wants. All I want to do is get out of there because this guy is a psychopath.
“Was there anything else you wanted me for?” I ask, my voice cold. “Because I have an appointment to get to.”
“An appointment?" he asks in his most patronizing tone. “Well, I wouldn't want to keep you from something so important," he murmurs.