“Pippa,” I groaned, covering my face in horror. It was 7:30 on a Thursday morning, for God’s sake. She could not possibly be drunk already. I aimed an apologetic smile at the wide-eyed man standing across from us and wondered if I could speed up the elevator with the powers of my mind. When I glared at her across the lift, Pippa mouthed, “What?” and then held her index fingers up about a foot apart. She whispered, “Hung like a bloody horse.” I was saved from having to apologize again when we stopped on the third floor and the doors opened. “You realize we weren’t alone in there, right?” I hissed, following her down the hall and around a corner, stopping at a set of wide doors with Richardson-Corbett engraved into the frosted glass. She looked up from where she was digging through her enormous purse, the bracelets on her right forearm clinking like wind chimes while she searched for keys.
