Glass shatters. It’s probably Swarovski crystal, a far cry from my Target glassware. Every muscle in my body tenses. This isn’t amateur hour. I wanted to have face time with the big boss, and I can’t impress if I’m acting like I’ve got ten thumbs for fingers. Apologize with a witty joke. Go fetch a dish towel, broom, or— “Sit, Bethanny.” It’s not until that moment that I realize I’ve stood. “If you insist on imitating my parents by using that name, I want to know what yours call you?” I snap. “Aleksander?” “Nothing,” he answers without a second of evasion. “They don’t call me anything.” “Oh.” I sink back down to the couch, tugging down the hem of my skirt and crossing my heels. “It’s okay. I’m not on speaking terms with mine either.” He is quiet so long that I have time to make a careful study of the way his suit jacket is vaguely rumpled and how that thick shock of black hair hangs without falling at the edge of his right temple.
