Vinnie sat in my office, an impatient look on his face. He glanced at his watch. “Maybe she said I was a hot stud with a really cute butt.”“No.” I swallowed and summoned my courage. Again. “She definitely said you were a big dud and she hated your guts.”Silence stretched between us as the news settled in. His gaze narrowed and his mouth thinned. He leaned forward, clasping his hands together, his knuckles white. I had a sudden vision of myself tacked up to the nearest wall, a bull’s-eye painted mid-chest, while Vinnie selected a weapon for his record-breaking BV kill.I slid a discreet hand across the top of my desk (I had a feeling Vinnie had a low tolerance for sudden moves) and retrieved the letter opener that lay near my stack of bills. I scooped it into my top drawer, followed by every visible pencil and pen. The corkscrew I kept on hand for the bottle of AB negative in my minifridge. A container of paper clips and some folder brads.There. I tried to relax. Short of carrying his own weapons arsenal, he wasn’t—oh, wait.
