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Like hell she wasn’t sure. Sandy liked to play the defenseless kitten routine, which every man in the office ate up like slow-roasted pulled pork at a BBQ stand. If Mr. Marlboro had opened the door for her, she would have batted her eyelashes, melted into girl-goo, and made a date with him for after work. They’d be fucking by seven-thirty on the dot. She’d no doubt pull theI never do this with strangersroutine by eight. He’d be out the door by nine, in plenty of time for her beauty sleep so she could be perfect again by morning. Sandy Mitchell?Nota feminist.
Veronica glanced over to Mr. Marlboro’s table. He’d ordered enough food for a small army. It might take him an hour to get through the pancakes, sausage, biscuits, eggs, bacon, and milk surrounding him. It was a heart attack waiting to happen, but he was in such good shape he could probably fend it off with brute strength. She forced herself to look away before she could determine if he had a milk mustache.
Sandy dropped her voice an octave and leaned forward in the less-than-subtle way she did. “Did you see the hot guy over there?”
Of course Sandy would zero in on any eligible-for-copulating male within a mile radius. Veronica feigned confusion.
“You know... the cowboy.” She whispered the wordcowboy.“He could ride me any day.”
Veronica choked a little on her eggs. She took a sip of tea and composed herself. “Oh, the Neanderthal who thinks women are too frail to open doors? Yeah, he’s a peach.”
Sandy rolled her eyes and flipped her hair again, turning briefly to give him an obvious once-over and no doubt a come-hither smile, but Marlboro Man’s eyes were on Veronica, still cataloging and assessing. He was probably a serial killer.
“Why do you hate men so much?” Sandy hissed when she turned back around.
“I don’thatemen. I just expect to be treated like a human being and not some fragile doll. I’m not some pet or lesser being. Would he have opened the door for another man?”
She shrugged. “Who cares? He’s pretty. If you didn’t overanalyze the wrong things, you could have a boyfriend by now.”
“Oh right. Because landing a man is one of the life goals of every female. It was in the woman manual I was sent at puberty.”
“It is unless you’re a lesbian.Areyou a lesbian?” Sandy pulled her jacket closed to hide the girls a little, as if Veronica would leap across the table and dive head first into her cleavage.
“No. I’m not a lesbian. When I find an enlightened man who respects me as an equal, I’ll think about letting one into my life. I have a vibrator for God’s sake.”
The waitress came back with Sandy’s coffee and a check for Veronica.
“Oh, please. No straight woman wants equality in the bedroom. They want a dominant alpha male to throw them down and growl and grunt a little.”
“Classy. And could you please keep your voice down?”
But the Marlboro man had heard. There was that eyebrow again. Veronica stared at the small bit of eggs left on her plate, wondering if he was aware of the warm flush that had come to her cheeks at Sandy’s description. What one fantasized about and what one was willing to actually do could be continents apart. Everybody knew that, with the exception of Sandy Mitchell.
* * *
The morning meeting was a disaster—foreveryone but Sandy, who would most likely receive Veronica’s office and a raise after this.
“Ms. Cason, you’ve beenofffor months now. You weren’t prepared for the meeting. I was going to let you take the lead on the Waterson account, but you gave me nothing.”
Normally Joe called her Ronnie like everybody else. He only pulled out the formal Ms. Cason when he was disappointed with her. Something in his demeanor grated on every indignant cell in her body—like he was being condescending because she was a woman, and he’d been proven right on her incompetence.
“I’m sorry. All right? I’ve got some personal stuff going on.” The quasi-apology took all her willpower to muster.
“What personal stuff?”
If she told Joe her financial situation, he might feel some pity and help her out, but either way it would be all over the office by noon.
“Never mind.”
“I’m going to have to let you go, Ronnie.” Now it was the more personal form of address, the name to soften the blow and make him sound like a good guy who was simply left with no other alternatives.
If it had been Sandy, she would have collapsed into tears and begged. She would have sandwiched some flirting in there somewhere, and she would have walked out with a better office. But Veronica couldn’t bring herself to play the helpless girl card. It offended everything inside her. She turned and headed for her office.
Her boss’s voice stopped her. “Don’t you have anything to say?”
“What should I say, Joe? I already said I was sorry. I’m not delving into my personal life with you. I’m not going to grovel or cry or scream at you like some petulant child. You’ve made your decision. I’m going to pack my desk if you don’t mind.”
“Give me anything, Ronnie. Any indication that things will get better, here. You’re brilliant when you want to be, but you isolate yourself. I can’t help you if you don’t let me.”
