Focus.
“So . . . the projected income is on the left-hand side of the graph here.” I point to the pink line with my finger as I try to act professional. “This line here is the actual income of the UK office, and this line here is projected advertising costs, although we don’t have all the data for France . . .” My eyes flick up to see if he’s listening; he’s sitting back in his chair, his thumb is under his chin, and his pointer finger is tracing over his lips as if he’s thinking deeply.
“What are you doing?” he asks.
“I’m . . .” I pause. Huh? “I’m explaining the projection report. Isn’t that . . . ?”
“That’s not what I’m talking about and you know it.”
“What do you mean?”
“Is this an entrapment?”
“I’m sorry . . .” I frown.
“Is that your plan?”
“I don’t understand.”
He stands and puts his hands in his suit pockets as if angered. “That’s it . . . isn’t it?”
“What?” I shake my head, confused.
“Do you really hate me that much that you would stoop that low?”
“What are you talking about?” I frown again.
He screws up his face. “Come off it, Landon. I wasn’t born yesterday. It’s all making sense now.”
“Well.” I widen my eyes. “Good, because you can explain it to me. I don’t know what you’re talking about. What’s wrong with this report?”
“I can see it so clearly now . . .” He shakes his head as if having an epiphany. “Of course, that’s it,” he whispers under his breath.
“Mr. Miles.”
“Elliot,” he corrects me. “And don’t give me your fucking shit.” He picks up a remote from his desk and points it to the corner of the ceiling; I glance up and see the green light go off. He just turned the security cameras off.
“So, this is your plan?” he sneers.
“Plan?”
“Turn your stupid boss on, until he cracks and pursues you. Then you have him charged with sexual harassment in the workplace.”
My mouth falls open in horror. “What?”
“Oh, please.” He screws up his face in disgust. “It’s clear as day now—the hot little dress, turning up at that event looking like a walking fucking orgasm and then going home with another man. The sauna, ha.” He throws his head back. “The sauna was a good one, what chance do I have seeing you hot and sweaty in a bikini like that?”
I stare at him as my brain misfires.
I turn him on.
“You can cut the shit, right fucking now,” he growls.
My temper begins to simmer. “Turn the camera back on for this because I want you to rewatch it later when you’re in a straitjacket.” I stand and we come toe to toe. “For your information . . . Mr. Miles,” I sneer, “I have just come out of a traumatic period in my life and have just started to refind myself. My new clothes, male friendships, and dresses have nothing to do with you or your inflated ego.”
He narrows his eyes as we glare at each other.
“This may come as a surprise, but I have only ever treated you as you have treated me, with contempt. Excuse me for not lining up to suck your dick like the rest of the stupid female population.”
“You know nothing about me.”