ANYTHING BUT ENEMIES

07. intimidation tactics

TWO HOURS of program overview and presentations later, I find myself in the bathroom messing with my eyelashes.

The screwed up one had somehow gone even more wonky during the first hour of intro, but I'd decided against fiddling with it at the table because I knew I'd get a look from Dane.

How did I know this?

Oh, just because he hadn't stopped glaring at me from the moment we sat down at the damn table.

Stupid Dane Anderson and his stupid, fucking face and intimidation tactics.

I'm cursing up a storm under my breath as one of the lashes plop onto the counter glue-side down before meeting my eyes in the mirror, dread circling around irises at the sight.

The man was driving me insane without even opening his mouth. How could I possibly survive three entire weeks in his presence? How could I even make it through one?

Applying a generous serving of glue back onto the base, I lean forward to place it just right before fanning my eye. This is all starting to get so ridiculous.

It's not until I'm leaving the bathroom, though, that the panic really starts to set in.

"Cleodora."

The nightmare's leaning on the back wall across from the restrooms, chin down arrogantly to meet my gaze, curly hair looking like it's been run through frustratedly one time too many in the past minute.

I keep walking with the intent of completely ignoring him, but he pushes off from the wall with a leather sneaker, striding forward to meet me in the middle of the hallway.

"Dane," I say back, not really a greeting, more of a dismissal. "Like the dog. That's your name, right?"

His jaw ticks again, something like annoyance flitting over his face. "Why are you here?"

"Why am I here? Why are you here?"

"Because I was deemed a worthy applicant by the board." He raises a brow as if to say, and you?

I straighten, wishing my heels were the slightest bit taller so I could spit in his eye with ease. "I guess I can say the same then."

He lets out a sarcastic bark of laughter, head twisting to the emptiness of the hall fast enough to get whiplash before turning back with burning eyes. "For the life of me, I can't figure out why."

My mouth opens automatically, but he's on a roll.

"This program is supposed to be for the best of the best. For people who are actually serious about writing. What would someone like you know about that?"

"Obviously quite a bit considering I made the final cut. Why, what are your qualifications? Registered stalker?"

"I'm not a stalker," he snaps, and I pretend to wipe a speck of saliva from my face, taking a half-step back.

"You really ought to make it more believable then. Showing up at my job, my departure terminal at the airport, and now outside the bathroom I just so happen to be inside? Creep alert—"

"Speaking of the airport," he interrupts to growl.

Ah, shit.

"Because of your immature antics, my glasses are fucked." He says the words like I've just cursed out his mother on a Black Friday, eyes wide and murderous. "I hope you make enough at that little craft shop of yours to afford another pair."

"Immature antics? I tripped. Twice, thanks to you. And anyway, it looks like you're seeing just fine."

"Contacts." He's gone from growling to hissing. I'm almost tempted to ask who let him out of his cage.