Doe Eyes jerks, squeaking when she sees me. Anderson looks over at her, arching an eyebrow. “How long have you been in here?” he asks her, ignoring me.
“I—I’m sorry, sir. I just came to drop this off.” She stumbles to her feet and quickly drops a stack of papers on his desk before scurrying out, avoiding my eyes while she does so.
I shut—and lock—the door behind her. Then wonder why I locked it.
Anderson smirks at me when I turn to face him, then leans back and holds up the sketch. Why does that look so freaking perfect?!
I cross my arms over my chest. “So this quick pitch is really you already deciding on an idea and stealing it out from under me, changing it just enough to call it your own. Is this the part where you word it in a way where it’s not supposed to piss me off?”
His lips twitch, and he lowers the sketch. “No, Sicily, this is called collaboration. We do it a lot here. Remember that whole team effort thing I was talking about? Your name goes on the account. But we still work together as a team.”
I bristle, and he leans up on his desk.
“You’re punishing us for the way Holland’s Region treated you.”
“And you’re punishing me because you haven’t gotten laid in a year,” I volley, then clap my hand over my mouth.
See? Just like when you’re drunk, going thirty-nine hours without sleep also clogs the filter on your mouth that’s supposed to keep all your inner thoughts inside you!
He clicks the end of his mechanical pencil, staring at me with a face devoid of any telling emotions. Is he pissed? Amused? Annoyed?
I don’t know.
“Roman or Kasha has a big mouth,” he finally says, then starts sketching again. “And I’m not punishing you. You’re a pain in my ass because you want to tackle everything on your own, and I’m trying to make you a part of the team. I’ve been trying since you came here.”
“Ass pains? You want to talk about ass pains? You’re the pain in the ass. You stripped my work bare then told me to start from scratch—”
“You hate me,” he interrupts, now sounding amused. “And for some reason, you take things way too personally.”
“Stop interrupting me! This is why I want to put candiru in your toilet!” I snap back.
Really, Sicily? Really? That’s what you shout?
“Can-da-what?” he asks, understandably confused.
I take a deep breath, wishing I had some music handy. As if he reads my mind, he reaches over and grabs his Bluetooth speaker, pushing it to the end of the desk without looking at me.
He knows. The bastard knows.
“Roman does have a big mouth,” I say through gritted teeth.
His smile is quick, as though he didn’t mean to release it, and he banishes it just as quickly, never looking up from the sketch he’s working on.
Annoyed, I pull out my phone and sync to his speaker. He covers his face, his body shaking with silent laughter, when Three Days Grace starts singing “I Hate Everything About You.”
But the angry tears quickly retreat before they ever get the chance to fall, and I almost want to thank the prick.
While the song plays on, he leans back, grinning. “Why exactly do you hate me? Because I tore your unorigin—”
“Don’t say it,” I caution, and his grin grows.
“Tell me it wasn’t unoriginal, and I’ll apologize.”
I bite the inside of my cheek.
“That’s what I thought. It’s business. Not personal. And you’re better than that work. I’m never going to pat you on your head and send you along like you did great work when I know you’re capable of something better. It’d be a grave injustice to allow you to be mediocre when you’re able to be so much more. This alone is better than that campaign ever thought about being, and it’s just the early stages of this one.”
No wonder he’s gotten away with so many scandals. He can talk his way around anything, making you feel like the bad guy or just the melodramatic girl.
Okay, so maybe I am a bit melodramatic…
“You’re a cheater,” I quickly toss out there.
That’s indefensible. I’d like to see him talk his way around that one.
His eyebrows go up. “I must have missed the part where I cheated on you.”
Frowning, I counter with, “You didn’t, but—”
“I asked what I did specifically to you to make you hate me.” That damn eyebrow of his arches again, daring me to answer the question logically.
He’s spinning this situation as though I have no right to find him detestable. “You cheated on Lydia and—”
He groans, cutting me off. “Are you Lydia? Are you friends with Lydia? Is Lydia your child or your sister?”
“Well, no, but—”
“What did I do to you?” he asks again.
My jaw clenches. “You’re an arrogant, self-absorbed—”