Page 56 of How To Plot a Payback

My eyes freeze.

And is that the exact pink dress I saw Bernie chewing on earlier today in Lavender’s room?

It is.

Goodwin’s beloved far-too-young-for-me niece has been in Lavender’s room, getting a makeover by the unhinged woman herself.

My throat feels dry.

I am not a weak man. If I meet a woman and we hit it off, and it seems like the opportunity is right, I will say the word. Ask the question. But everyone in the entire building is aware that Maggie is the fresh-off-the-turnip-truck favored niece of Goodwin, who has laid down the law: none of his staff are to so much as give her a second look. Not even a first. Our eyes are to pretty much skirt the ground in Maggie’s presence.

Her eyes drag to mine.

“Hi, Maggie,” I say.

I need to do something.

We’re drawing the attention of people now.

Hands are slowing as they pack up their work.

Everybody is curious.

You know what? Running away seems like the best choice here. I just need to leave.

“Well, I’ll see you all tomorrow,” I say as chipperly as I can and, picking up my laptop bag, nod to everyone in the room.

Please do not follow me.

Please do not follow me.

I’m nearly down the hall, the corner is just in sight, when I hear her heels. “Finn,” she calls.

For a long moment I think about pretending I can’t hear her.

But then she’s calling louder, and I stop.

Hang my head.

Turn.

Several heads behind her pop back inside the doorway, from where they’ve clearly been watching.

Terrific.

Maggie wrings that purple purse of hers as she walks towards me, chewing on her bottom lip. As she steps up to me she says, “I’m . . . I’m heading out too.”

I pause.

Force a grin. “Oh, well, good,” I say loudly, formally, like we’re two perfect strangers. “We can walk to our separate cars together.”

With a rather wide step toward the wall to increase the space between us, I continue walking. She follows alongside.

Together we pass several people in silence. We’ve taken on a corporate look, because as we pass we both nod and smile, nod and smile. Nothing to see here.

I don’t say a word, because I cannot for the life of me think of a way to ask such a sensitive question as, “What did Lavender tell you? Whatever it was, whatever she’s said, please, just do the absolute opposite.”

And then of course there is the wonderful, bright, shiny possibility that this is all in my head. That of course Lavender wouldn’t do anything as insane as tell this forbidden-fruit-niece-of-Goodwin something on my behalf. That of course it is ludicrous to imagine this lovely young lady—who is a full decade younger than me—rolling up her hair into bouncing curls just because she wanted to picture herself with a man who drives a sensible car and spends far too long researching arthritis pills for his dog.