Page 9 of Hate You, Maybe
So much for apologizing.
I’m about to be Sayla Kroft’s worst enemy.
Chapter Four
Sayla
“Good morning, Helen!” I heft my bag on my shoulder, praying Mr. Wilford’s administrative assistant won’t be able to tell how badly my palms are sweating. “I’m here for the meeting.”
She looks up from her computer and pushes her cat-eyed glasses higher on her nose. “The boss will be back any minute. He said you can wait for him in his office.”
“Terrific!” I flash her a smile and swipe my clammy hands down my skirt.
Terrific? I don’t think I’ve ever said that word out loud before. As I stride toward the open door, a pep talk runs through my head.
You’ve got this, Sayla. Your proposal is perfect. Even Loren said so.
But I only make it a few feet into the office before I freeze.
Dexter Michaels is already seated across from Mr.Wilford’s desk. Every inch of my body begins to heat. Stomach, chest, throat, cheeks. Even my forehead feels hot. Then a stress burp threatens my esophagus.
Stupid breakfast burrito.
“Hey, Tin Man.” He grins like he’s welcoming me to my own meeting. “Lose your oil can?”
I blink. “Excuse me?”
“The WD-40.”
“Oh.” I tuck my bag more closely to my side. “Not that it’s any of your business, but that’s in my bag.”
“I see.” He folds his arms across his chest. “Well, if I didn’t know any better, I’d think you were stalking me.”
“What? No!” I level him with a glare. “Of course I’m not stalking you.”
“Are you sure?”
“I’m sure,” I say, as something sharp claws at my throat.
“First the weight room. Then the hallway. Now Wilford’s office.”
“For your information”—I jut my chin—“Mr. Wilford is expecting me.”
“Yes, I am,” Mr. Wilford confirms, blustering into his office. He’s wearing a black suit with a gray striped tie. Slivers of scalp peek out from under a scrape of salt and pepper hair.
“Sorry I’m late.” He sinks into a swivel chair and pulls up to his big walnut desk. The wall behind him is covered in framed degrees. The opposite wall is dominated by bookshelves.
“You’re right on time,” I gush, a little too enthusiastically. “I was just early.” I tag this on for good measure, aiming for courteous and professional, but probably landing somewhere just north of butt-kissing.
I need to calm down.
“You’re too kind,” Mr. Wilford says, his forehead shining like the skin there is stretched too thin. “Ms. Kroft. Please.Make yourself comfortable.” He waves at the empty chair next to Dexter, and I have no choice but to sit. Unfortunately, this puts me close enough to smell the man’s woodsy body wash. Which is the last thing I need when I’m trying to focus.
“I’d like to thank you both for meeting with me on such short notice,” Mr. Wilford begins. “I know you’re very busy.”
Wait. Dexter is supposed to be here, too?
A ribbon of unease tendrils through my insides. I figured he’d showed up for some kind of early-morning man-talk, or whatever he does in his spare time while the rest of us are working. I expected Mr. Wilford to ask him to leave. But now … I gag and break into a coughing fit.
