“I can’t think what job you want dressed like that.” “Can’t you?” “What is it you want to do?” His low spoken words feel like a taunt, and my heart seems to be in my throat as I answer, “You.” He freezes—not one muscle of his seems to move. Panic floods my system, my mind flicking over a dozen ways to take it back. I need a joke to steer this back on course, some kind of time machine to make it go away. He’s my boss. My pseudo-big brother. I’m nothing but his PA. A friend of the family. But then he pushes languidly from the door and begins to move toward me, those tiger’s eyes of his
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