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Taking my affirmative reply for granted, he strides toward Britney, whose eyes are catlike slits at this point.
For a second, I wonder if he’ll be forced to tackle her.
But no. She moves out of the way.
As I hurry past her, I can feel a cloud of malevolence emanating from her, like poisonous mercury fumes. I don’t have a chance to analyze it, though, because I’m overwhelmed by the realization that I’m going to lunch with the Impaler.
Me.
And him.
Eating together.
Like on a date?
No, that’s stupid. This isn’t a date. It’s a work lunch, one that might be a ploy to fire me outside the office so I don’t cause a scene.
Still. I feel giddy, like I’m going to prom—and I never actually went to prom.
Now I wish I were better dressed and had those premium human hair eyebrows glued on.
The Impaler stops by the elevator, and I’m so preoccupied with my thoughts that I slam into his back.
Holy cow. I just felt some seriously hard muscle.
Waving away my mumbling apology, he jabs the elevator button.
I stand there not thinking about licking his finger.
Nope.
Not me.
When the elevator doors open, he gestures for me to go first, so I do.
Realizing I’m still holding my tea, I gulp it down, the heat burning my insides. He mirrors me by downing his water in one go. His Adam’s apple bobs up and down, and I want to lick it.
Stop fantasizing about licking random body parts.
His phone rings.
“Excuse me,” he says and checks the screen.
Frowning at whatever message he’s just received, he types out a reply with the speed a teenage girl would be proud of.
“Everything okay?” I ask when he looks up.
“Yes, but I only have fifty minutes for lunch. Is that okay?”
Even if it weren’t okay, which it is, it’s not like I’d tell him so. “You’re a busy man. I understand.”
We exit the building and cross the road, his long legs taking such wide strides I have to speed-walk to keep up.
Before I get sweaty, he stops next to a place I’ve never been to—because it’s one of the best restaurants in New York City, and maybe the world. Or if not the best, then certainly the most expensive.
The Impaler pulls open the ornamental glass door. “After you.”
Swallowing my awed disbelief, I step inside. As soon as the host sees the Impaler, he fawns over us as though we were royalty, leading us to a well-positioned table by the window—no doubt next to C-level executives of all the major corporations in the downtown area.
