Thwack.

The blueberry crumble muffin hits the wall of the break room, just behind Martin’s head.

“You lying …” My words come out breathless as I fling a second muffin at him.

Thuck.

This one hits him on the shoulder, leaving a smear of sticky fruit and crumbs on his four thousand dollar pinstriped suit jacket.

“Cheating…”

He beats away the third muffin, flailing his arms like a little girl.

“Son of a bitch,” I finish with a hiss. The last muffin hits him right in the throat and he yells in surprise.

“Celia!” he barks. “This is very unbecoming.”

“Unbecoming?” I yell. “Unbecoming was when you got caught with your pants down in the copy room. Oh, wait, no, that was just coming, right? My mistake.”

People have gathered around outside the break room now, and I can feel their eyes boring into my back, but all I can do is glare at the man who broke my heart.

Martin and I split up two weeks ago, but this is my first time seeing him since then. I thought I’d be able to handle seeing him at work again — I was determined to be mature, to take the high road even after he’d humiliated me.

So much for that plan.

Of course, all that was before I found out the associate lawyer he’d been fucking behind my back is being promoted to partner. A promotion I’ve been in the running for, one I had been told I was a shoo-in for.

Apparently now that Martin and I are no longer engaged, I’m no longer partner material.

To be honest, I’m not even sure I want to be a partner at Turner & Crosby. Being a lawyer isn’t exactly all I had dreamed it would be — or all my parents had dreamed for me, I suppose. But I want it to be my choice. I want to succeed or fail on my own terms, and not because my ex has tapped his new fuck buddy for the job that was supposed to be mine.

I search helplessly around for something else to throw at Martin, but we’re all out of muffins. I pick up the empty cardboard box and heave that at him too, but it just sails to the floor pathetically between us.

“Ms. Jeffries.” The booming voice comes from behind us and I instantly flinch. I turn around to see Frank Turner, one of the firm’s founding partners. He looks none too pleased — his silver eyebrows are furrowed and his mouth is thin.

“Ms. Jeffries, please come with me.”

He turns on his heel and I have no choice but to follow along behind him like a puppy. Not before I shoot Martin one last withering glare though. He has the nerve to shake his head sadly at me, as if I’m the pathetic one. As if he’s not the lying, cheating scumbag in this scenario.

I scamper down the hallway behind Mr. Turner, still cursing out Martin under my breath. When Frank gets to his office, he holds the door open for me.

“After you, Ms. Jeffries.”

I step cautiously into his office. Well, I tell myself, if nothing else, at least there’s no way Frank Turner is ever going to forget my name now.

* * *

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I ride the elevator down to the ground floor of our luxurious office tower, cursing as it dings past every floor. My hands are still shaking and my heart is racing, replaying the conversation I just had with Frank.

Unacceptable workplace behavior, he’d said. Appearance of mental instability.

Apparently break room meltdowns and muffin-throwing are unacceptable workplace behavior now. Who knew?

Frank had suggested I take two weeks off to deal with my personal matters (aka get my shit together), only it was clear from his tone that it wasn’t really a suggestion at all. They were putting me on leave, even if he didn’t have the balls to come right out and say it.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

The elevator doors open with one final ping and I step into the soaring glass lobby, the one that normally gives me such a giddy thrill. Now it’s dark and humid. Rain is pouring down outside, and the space feels damp and dreary.

I stand there in the lobby, clutching my purse and staring at the rain pelting down on the sidewalk outside. Because of course it would have to be pouring rain right now. Why wouldn’t it be, really? It’s the perfect end to the perfect day.

Yet even with the rain and the muffins and the leave of absence, this still only ranks as the second worst day I’ve had this month. Top billing goes to the day Martin and I broke up, the day I walked in on him in the copy room, bare ass thrusting against…

God. I can’t even think about it right now.

Of course, after it had happened, no one at the firm had told Martin his behavior was unacceptable. No one had told him he needed to take a couple of weeks to get his shit together. You could get your rocks off in the office, apparently, but you couldn’t throw an innocent baked good or two.

Then again, Martin was the one with the corner office, the big clients — the kind who flew in on private jets just for an hour-long meeting, which he always billed them through the nose for. Apparently that bought you a lot of privilege at the office.

That’s why, for the last two weeks, ever since it had happened, I’d been forcing myself to keep it together. After all, I’m a good girl with an Ivy-league education and an up-and-coming career in corporate law. Losing my shit isn’t exactly part of my life plan right now.

I stare out at the rain, painting the sidewalks in dark grey, wondering why I picked today of all days to lose it. Not the day I caught Martin cheating. Not the day I took off my engagement ring. Not the day I had to call the wedding planner and tell her the wedding wasn’t happening anymore.

No, I lost my shit over a job I didn’t even know if I wanted.

And look where my little outburst got me — I’ll never get the partner job now. I’ll be lucky if I get to keep the job I currently have. Worst of all, throwing those muffins hadn’t even made me feel any better.

Well, okay, maybe it made me feel a little bit better.

But it didn’t make up for the trouble it had got me in.

I huff out another sigh, staring at the rain. The only things that could possibly help salvage this disaster of a day are a drink, a fuck, and a really gooey grilled cheese sandwich. Considering my current relationship status (non-existent), I doubt I’m going to get that middle option, but luckily I know exactly where I can satisfy my other two cravings.

I push open the lobby door and step out into the downpour. The sidewalks are surprisingly empty for four o’clock in Manhattan, probably because everyone else is smart enough to stay indoors in this near typhoon. I hurry through the rain as fast as I can in my heels, which unfortunately isn’t very fast.

Fortunately I’m not going far.

Veneer is just three blocks from my office, but no one I work with would ever set foot in a dive bar like that, which is exactly why I like it. That and the tasty piece of man meat that works behind the bar most evenings. I’ve been coming here at least once a month since I started working at Turner & Crosby, and it’s the perfect place to drown my sorrows tonight.

Especially if Jace is working.

I push open the door and burst into the bar like a thundercloud, trailing puddles and gloom in my wake. It’s actually packed inside — probably people hiding out from the storm — so I drop my soaking wet ass on a bar stool and try to ring out my black hair. There’s no bartender back there at the moment so I grab a handful of napkins and start trying to wipe up the worst of the water while I wait. I must look like a drowned rat.

Another win for today.

I look around the bar, checking out the diverse clientele. The bar isn’t big, but it isn’t a hole in the wall either, and the battered old tables are filled with a wide mix of people — bankers, college kids, hipsters, and more than a few single women, probably hoping for exactly the same thing as I am: a view of the sexiest bartender in Manhattan.

Finally the door from the kitchen swings open. A collective sigh rises from the lips of every woman in the room.

And just like that, my day gets immeasurably better.