Free The Opposite of Me by Sarah Pekkanen Page B

hadn’t won Cheryl the account, I remembered, narrowing my eyes. Her face and body and sultry voice had won it. Cheryl had done her research, too, I had no doubt. But a different kind of research. Instead of figuring out Fenstermaker’s favorite drink or which type of bagel he preferred, she’d analyzed his ego for a weak spot and zeroed in. What middle-aged man wouldn’t be flattered by the gentle scrape of long nails against his knee, by the gaze that told him he was irresistible, by the deliberate flash of cleavage, especially when his marriage had dried up and his wife was sleeping with a thirty-year-old pilot? I had no doubt that Cheryl would follow up her flirtation with action. She’d probably already spent the afternoon in a hotel room with Fenstermaker; she’d probably known he was about to call so she could hold Mason’s feet to the fire.
    Suddenly something clicked into place; Cheryl had made an abrupt mystery trip last week. Not even her assistant knew where she’d gone. Had she flown to Aspen and engineereda meeting with Fenstermaker? Had their relationship started then?
    Oh my God, I thought, staring at her storyboard. She’d had the winning strategy all along. She was smarter than me after all.
    I raised my champagne bottle in a mock salute: Nice going, Cheryl. You’ve single-handedly set women’s lib back fifty years. I closed my eyes and tilted the bottle to my lips. I nearly toppled over and had to grab the back of a chair for balance. The champagne was hitting me at last, mercifully dulling the edges of my anger and pain.
    “Don’t think for one second I’m going to call you boss,” I muttered, waving my champagne bottle at Cheryl’s ad. Probably not the most effective workplace threat ever, but I was going with what I had.
    I was turning to leave, to finally go to the blessed sanctuary of my bed, when I heard footsteps in the hallway. Better not be a burglar, I thought grimly. Actually, I half-hoped it would be. It would feel good to smash the champagne bottle over his head, to unleash some of the rage and hurt I was carrying inside. I looked down at the bottle. It would be a shame to waste it, though. Maybe I could just finish it before I knocked out the burglar. I tilted up the bottle and drank as quietly as I could, which ended up being at about the same decibel level as a marching band, since I lost my grip on the chair, fumbled for Cheryl’s storyboard, and brought it crashing down on top of me as I fell, thumping my head on the floor for a grand finale. This was not shaping up to be my day.
    “Lindsey? Is that you?”
    In an instant Doug was beside me, pulling the stupid storyboard off my head and helping me to my feet.
    “Are you okay?” he asked.
    “Fine,” I said, squinting at him with one eye closed. And I would be, if he’d just stop swaying back and forth.
    “I’m glad,” Doug said softly. He kept hold of my hands as he rubbed his thumbs along my palms. Doug made Bill Clinton look like a nun wearing a chastity belt at a Victorian tea party. “I didn’t expect to see you here.”
    “I was just leaving,” I said, but I didn’t move. “What are you doing here?”
    “Forgot my cell phone in my office,” he said. “I didn’t want to leave it here all weekend.”
    I nodded.
    “Rough night, huh?” Doug said. His chocolate brown eyes seemed sweet and sincere, and his voice was low.
    “Yeah,” I said glumly. What was the point in pretending?
    “Everyone thought you should’ve been named VP,” he said, still holding my hands.
    “Thanks,” I said, swallowing hard. I’d be having this same conversation with every single person I worked with for the next month. Some people would be genuinely sorry; others would be happy to see me fail. I didn’t know which would make me feel worse.
    I couldn’t bear to see the pity in Doug’s eyes, so I turned my head and stared out through the conference room’s glass walls. The streets below were as busy now as they had