Page 69 of Boss of Me
Ignoring my sullen glare, she returns to the couch and pours herself more tea with a self-satisfied smile.
Just when my mood can’t get any worse, her cat comes prancing into the room. Suddenly she stops and stares at me, back arched, hackles raised. As ifI’mtrespassing onherterritory.
I scowl at her.
She hisses.
To be clear, I’ve never harmed a single hair on any feline’s head. But this furry fucker tests the limits of my humanity.
“Aww, poor baby,” Mom coos sympathetically. “Come here, darling.”
She’s talking to the cat. Not me—her son who’s clearly in distress after Marlowe’s departure.
Keeping a watchful eye on me, Charlotte Brontë slowly creeps her way over to the couch.
Mom picks her up and places her in her lap, stroking her fur as she croons soothingly, “Don’t mind Gunner. He’s just trying to cope with the shock of being rejected by a woman. It’s never happened before, and I’m afraid he’s not handling it very well.”
The cat meows and Mom cackles like a witch.
I send them both a death glare before stalking out of the room.
Chapter Sixteen
marlowe
“So after graduating summa cum laude,”Dawson drones on, “I was recruited by Deloitte. I had several other companies competing for me, of course, but Deloitte made the best offer. I was there for only a year before I got a big promotion to financial advisory analyst.”
“Really?” I widen my eyes, trying to look engrossed. “That’s so impressive.”
He chuckles with sham sheepishness. “You probably already heard all these things from Barbara.”
I smile brightly. “It never hurts to hear it from the horse’s mouth.”
Or the horse’s ass, in this case.
The uncharitable thought makes me feel guilty, but it’s true. Dawson is a self-absorbed douchebag, and that’s putting it mildly. We’re halfway through lunch, and all he’s talked about is himself: his fabulous downtown loft, his expensive car, his amazing job and cha-ching salary (yes, he actually made acha-chingcash register sound). I’ve lost count of how many sentences he’s started with “I.” The man is clearly his own favorite subject.
The only consolation, I guess, is that he’s attractive. He has dark brown hair, grayish green eyes and perfect white teeth. His lean build reminds me of a swimmer. He told me he’s six foot two, but I suspect that’s a bit of an exaggeration. Gunner is six-four and he towers over me, even in my heels. Dawson doesn’t come close.
Annndthere I go again thinking about Gunner. I can’t seem to stop myself. I keep seeing his face and the way he’d looked me up and down, all smoldering rage and possessiveness. His words echo through my mind, taunting me with their truth.What happened between us last night wasn’t a fluke or a mistake . . . We haven’t stopped connecting since we first laid eyes on each other. Whether you believe it or not,we’re going to make love again. And again. And?—
“Marlowe?”
I blink stupidly at Dawson. “Sorry. What’d you say?”
“I asked if you want another drink. Your glass is empty.”
I glance down to see that I’ve drained the last icy dregs of my margarita, but I’m still holding the glass to my mouth.
Dawson signals our waiter for another margarita and smiles at me.
I smile back awkwardly and put my glass down, resisting the urge to drum my fingernails on the table.
We’re sitting on the patio of a funky little Mexican restaurant that started out as a food truck. It’s pretty crowded, even on a Sunday morning. Bouncy salsa music blends with conversation and laughter from other tables. No one else seems to be suffering through an excruciatingly boring date, which makes me jealous as hell.
The sad irony is that I didn’t even remember the date until Dawson called this morning to ask if he could pick me up a little earlier. I wish I’d backed out at that point. I should have.
Dawson gestures to my empty plate. “How were your carne asada tacos?”
